PLAYS 

BY 

AUGUST 
STRINDBERG 

'  FIRST  SERIES  • 

TBANSLATEDBT 

EDWIN  BJORKMAN 


The  Dream  Play 

The  Link 

TheDaneeofDeath,PartI 

The  Dance  ofDeath,  Part  IF 


)) 


n 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


PLAYS 

BY 

AUGUST   STRINDBERG 


PLAYS   BY  AUGUST   STRINDBERG 

Published  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


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PLAYS 


BY 

AUGUST    STRINDBERG 


THE    DREAM    PLAY 

THE    LINK 

THE    DANCE    OF    DEATH,    Part  I 

THE    DANCE    OF    DEATH,    Part  II 


TRANSLATED    WITH    AN     INTRODUCTION     BT 

EDWIN  BJORKMAN 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1912 


VTfSlj 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  February,  1912 
Reprinted  May.  July  and  November,  1912 


NOTE 

This  translation  is  authorised  by 
Mr.  Strindberg,  and  he  has  also 
approved  the  selection  of  the 
plays    included    in   this   volume. 


2092014 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction 1 

A  Chronological  List  of  August  Strindberg's 

Main  Works 21 

The  Dream  Play 23 

The  Link 105 

The  Dance  of  Death,  Part  I 145 

The  Dance  of  Death,  Part  II 217 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

To  the  first  volume  of  his  remarkable  series  of  autobiograph- 
ical novels,  August  Strindberg  gave  the  name  of  "The  Bond- 
woman's Son."  The  allusion  was  twofold — to  his  birth  and 
to  the  position  which  fate,  in  his  own  eyes,  seemed  to  have 
assigned  him  both  as  man  and  artist. 

If  we  pass  on  to  the  third  part  of  his  big  trilogy,  "To  Damas- 
cus," also  an  autobiographical  work,  but  written  nearly  twenty 
years  later,  we  find  The  Stranger,  who  is  none  but  the  author, 
saying:  "I  was  the  Bondwoman's  Son,  concerning  whom  it 
was  writ — *  Cast  out  this  bondwoman  and  her  son ;  for  the  son 
of  the  bondwoman  shall  not  be  heir  with  the  free  woman's 
son.'  " 

And  The  Lady,  back  of  whom  we  glimpse  Strindberg's  sec- 
ond wife,  replies:  "Do  you  know  why  Ishmael  was  cast  out.'' 
It  is  to  be  read  a  little  further  back — because  he  was  a  scof- 
fer! And  then  it  is  also  said:  'He  will  be  a  wild  man; 
his  hand  will  be  against  every  man,  and  every  man's  hand 
against  him;  and  he  shall  dwell  in  opposition  to  all  his  breth- 
ren.' " 

These  quotations  should  be  read  in  conjunction  with  still 
another,  taken  from  Strindberg's  latest  play,  "The  Great 
Highway,"  which,  while  being  a  sort  of  symbolical  summary 
of  his  life  experience,  yet  pierces  the  magic  circle  of  self- 
concern  within  which  too  often  he  has  remained  a  captive. 
There  The  Hermit  asks:  "You  do  not  love  your  fellow- 
men?"  And  Strindberg,  masquerading  as  The  Hunter,  cries 
in  answer :  "  Yes,  far  too  much,  and  fear  them  for  that  reason, 
too." 

3 


4  INTRODUCTION 

August  Strindberg  was  born  at  Stockholm,  Sweden,  on 
January  22,  1849.  His  father  was  a  small  tradesman,  who 
had  lost  his  business  just  before  August  was  born,  but  who 
had  the  energy  and  ability  to  start  all  over  again  as  a  steam- 
ship agent,  making  a  decided  success  of  his  second  venture. 
The  success,  however,  was  slow  in  coming,  and  the  boy's 
earliest  years  were  spent  in  the  worst  kind  of  poverty — that 
poverty  which  has  to  keep  up  outward  appearances. 

The  mother  had  been  a  barmaid  in  one  of  the  numerous 
inns  forming  one  of  the  Swedish  capital's  most  characteristic 
features.  There  the  elder  Strindberg  had  met  her  and  fallen 
deeply  in  love  with  her.  August  was  their  third  child,  born  a 
couple  of  months  after  their  relationship  had  become  legalized 
in  spite  of  bitter  opposition  from  the  husband's  family.  Other 
children  followed,  many  of  them  dying  early,  so  that  August 
could  write  in  later  years  that  one  of  his  first  concrete  recollec- 
tions was  of  the  black-jacketed  candy  which  used  to  be  passed 
around  at  every  Swedish  funeral. 

Though  the  parents  were  always  tired,  and  though  the 
little  home  was  hopelessly  overcrowded — ten  persons  living 
in  three  rooms — yet  the  family  life  was  not  without  its  happi- 
ness. Only  August  seemed  to  stand  apart  from  the  rest, 
having  nothing  in  common  with  his  parents  or  with  the  other 
children.  In  fact,  a  sort  of  warfare  seems  to  have  been  rag- 
ing incessantly  between  him  and  his  elder  brothers.  Thus 
a  character  naturally  timid  and  reserved  had  those  traits  de- 
veloped to  a  point  where  its  whole  existence  seemed  in  dan- 
ger of  being  warped. 

At  school  he  was  not  much  happier,  and  as  a  rule  he  re- 
garded the  tasks  set  him  there  as  so  much  useless  drudgery. 
Always  and  everywhere  he  seemed  in  fear  of  having  his  per- 
sonality violated,  until  at  last  that  apprehension,  years  later, 
took  on  a  form  so  morbid  that  it  all  but  carried  him  across  the 


INTRODUCTION  5 

limits  of  rationality.  With  this  suspiciousness  of  his  environ- 
ment went,  however,  a  keen  desire  to  question  and  to  under- 
stand. He  has  said  of  himself  that  the  predominant  traits  of 
his  character  have  been  "doubt  and  sensitiveness  to  pres- 
sure." In  these  two  traits  much  of  his  art  will,  indeed,  find 
its  explanation. 

At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  lost  his  mother,  and  less  than  a 
year  later  his  father  remarried — choosing  for  his  second  wife 
the  former  housekeeper.  That  occurrence  made  the  boy's 
isolation  at  home  complete.  During  the  years  that  followed 
he  threw  himself  with  his  usual  passionate  surrender  into  re- 
ligious broodings  and  practices.  This  mood  lasted  until  he 
left  for  the  university  at  Upsala.  He  was  then  eighteen. 
During  his  first  term  at  the  university  he  was  so  poor  that  he 
could  buy  no  books.  Worse  even — he  could  not  buy  the  wood 
needed  to  heat  the  bare  garret  where  he  lived. 

Returning  to  Stockholm,  he  tried  to  teach  in  one  of  the  pub- 
lic schools — the  very  school  which  he  had  attended  during  the 
unhappiest  part  of  his  childhood.  From  that  time  dates  the 
theme  of  eternal  repetition,  of  forced  return  to  past  experi- 
ences, which  recurs  constantly  in  his  works.  Another  recur- 
ring theme  is  that  of  unjust  punishment,  and  it  has  also  come 
out  of  his  own  life — from  an  occasion  when,  as  a  boy  of  eight, 
he  was  suspected  of  having  drunk  some  wine  that  was  missing, 
and  when,  in  spite  of  his  indignant  protests,  he  was  held  guilty 
and  finally  compelled  to  acknowledge  himself  so  in  order  to 
escape  further  punishment. 

But  while  still  teaching  school,  he  made  certain  acquaint- 
ances that  set  his  mind  groping  for  some  sort  of  literary  ex- 
pression. He  tried  time  and  again  to  write  verse,  only  to 
fail — until  one  day,  in  a  sort  of  trance,  he  found  himself 
shaping  words  into  measured  lines,  and  it  suddenly  dawned 
on  him  that  he  had  accomplished  the  feat  held  beyond  him. 


6  INTRODUCTION 

From  the  first  the  stage  drew  him,  and  his  initial  work  was 
a  httle  comedy,  concerning  which  nothing  is  known  now. 
Then  he  wrote  another  one-act  play  with  the  Danish  sculp- 
tor Thorvaldsen  for  central  figure,  and  this  was  accepted  by 
the  Royal  Theatre  and  actually  played  with  some  success. 
Finally  he  produced  a  brief  historical  play  in  prose,  "The 
Outlaw,"  which  was  spurned  by  the  critics  and  the  public, 
but  which  brought  him  the  personal  good-will  and  financial 
support  of  King  Charles  XV. 

Thus  favoured,  he  returned  to  the  university  with  the 
thought  of  taking  a  degree.  Instead  he  read  everything  not 
required  in  the  courses,  quarrelled  with  every  professor  to 
whom  he  had  to  submit  himself  for  examination,  and  spent 
the  major  part  of  his  time  with  a  set  of  youngsters  whose  sole 
ambition  was  to  make  literature.  Of  that  coterie,  Strindberg 
was  the  only  one  to  reach  the  goal  which  all  dreamt  of.  On 
the  sudden  death  of  the  king,  when  his  little  stipend  ceased, 
he  went  up  to  the  capital  again,  bent  on  staying  away  for  ever 
from  the  university. 

During  the  next  couple  of  years,  he  studied  medicine  for 
a  while,  tried  himself  as  an  actor,  conducted  a  trade  journal, 
and  failed  rather  than  succeeded  to  make  a  living  as  a  hack 
writer  for  various  obscure  newspapers.  All  this  life  he  has 
pictured  with  biting  humour  in  his  first  big  novel,  "The  Red 
Room."  At  last,  when  he  was  twenty-three  and  had  with- 
drawn in  sheer  desperation  to  one  of  the  little  islands  between 
Stockholm  and  the  open  sea,  he  conceived  and  completed  a 
five-act  historical  play,  named  "Master  Olof,"  after  Arch- 
bishop Olaus  Petri,  the  Luther  of  Sweden. 

The  three  main  figures  of  that  play.  Master  Olof,  King 
Gustavus  Vasa,  and  Gert  the  Printer,  were  designed  by  the 
author  to  represent  three  phases  of  his  own  character.  The 
King  was  the  opportunist,  Olof  the  idealist,  and  Gert  the  "  im- 


INTRODUCTION  7 

possibilist."  The  title  first  chosen  for  the  play  was  "The 
Renegade."  It  was  suggested  by  the  cry  with  which  Gert 
greets  the  surrender  of  Olo]  in  the  final  scene. 

The  indifference  shown  that  first  big  work  came  near  turn- 
ing Strindberg  away  from  a  Hterary  career  for  ever.  It  took 
him  several  years  to  recover  from  the  shock  of  disappoint- 
ment— a  shock  the  more  severe  because  he  felt  so  uncertain 
of  his  own  gifts.  But  those  years  of  seeming  inactivity  were 
not  lost.  He  had  obtained  a  position  in  the  Royal  Library, 
which  gave  him  a  living  and  free  access  to  all  the  books  he 
wanted.  At  first  he  sought  forgetfulness  in  the  most  exotic 
studies,  such  as  the  Chinese  language.  The  honours  of  the 
savant  tempted  him,  and  he  wrote  a  monograph  which  was 
accepted  by  the  French  Institute. 

Gradually,  however,  he  was  drawn  back  to  his  own  time. 
And  there  was  hardly  a  field  of  human  thought  to  which  he 
did  not  give  some  attention.  Already  as  a  student  at  Upsala, 
his  conception  of  life  had  been  largely  determined  by  the  study 
of  the  Danish  individualistic  philosopher  Kierkegaard,  the 
English  determinist  Buckle,  and  the  German  pessimist  Eduard 
von  Hartmann.  Among  novelists,  Hugo  and  Dickens  were 
his  favourites.  They  together  with  the  brothers  de  Goncourt, 
and  not  Zola,  helped  principally  to  shape  his  artistic  form 
until  he  was  strong  enough  to  stand  wholly  on  his  own  feet. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-six  he  met  the  woman  who  was  to 
play  the  double  part  of  muse  and  fate  to  him.  She  was 
already  married.  In  the  end  she  obtained  a  divorce  and 
became  Strindberg's  wife.  To  begin  with  they  were  very 
happy,  and  under  the  stimulus  of  this  unfamiliar  feeling  Strind- 
berg began  once  more  to  write — but  now  in  a  manner  such 
that  recognition  could  no  longer  be  denied  him.  The  novel 
already  mentioned  was  his  first  popular  success.  It  drew 
bitter  attacks  from  the  conservative  elements,  but  the  flavour 


8  INTRODUCTION 

of  real  life  pervading  it  conquered  all  opposition.  To  this 
day  that  first  work  of  social  criticism  has  not  been  forgiven 
Strindberg  by  the  official  guardians  of  Swedish  literature. 

After  a  while  Strindberg  threw  himself  with  passion  into 
the  study  of  Swedish  history.  One  of  the  results  was  a  dar- 
ing work  named  "The  Swedish  People,"  which  is  still,  next 
to  the  Bible,  the  most  read  book  among  the  Swedes  in  this 
country.  He  wrote  also  a  series  of  short  stories  on  histori- 
cal themes  which  combined  artistic  value  with  a  truly  re- 
markable insight  into  the  life  of  by-gone  days.  This  series 
was  named  "Swedish  Events  and  Adventures."  About  the 
same  time  he  administered  some  scathing  strictures  on  social 
and  political  conditions  in  a  volume  of  satirical  essays  en- 
titled "The  New  Kingdom." 

His  plays  from  this  period  include  "The  Secret  of  the 
Guild"  and  "Sir  Bengt's  Lady,"  both  historical  dramas  of 
romantic  nature.  To  these  must  be  added  his  first  fairy 
play,  "The  Wanderings  of  Lucky-Per,"  concerning  which  he 
declared  recently  that  it  was  meant  for  children  only  and  must 
not  be  counted  among  his  more  serious  efforts.  But  this  play 
has  from  the  start  been  a  great  favourite  with  the  public,  com- 
bining in  its  rapidly  moving  scenes  something  of  a  modern 
"Everyman"  and  not  a  little  of  a  Swedish  "Peer  Gynt." 

After  he  had  resigned  from  the  Royal  Library  and  retired 
to  Switzerland  for  the  purpose  of  devoting  all  his  time  to 
writing,  he  produced  the  volume  of  short  stories,  "Marriage," 
which  led  him  up  to  the  first  turning  point  in  his  artistic  career. 
It  dealt  with  modern  marital  conditions  in  a  manner  meant 
to  reveal  the  economic  reefs  on  which  so  many  unions  are 
wrecked.  His  attitude  toward  women  had  already  become 
critical  in  that  work,  but  it  was  not  yet  hostile. 

The  book  was  confiscated.  Criminal  proceedings  were 
brought  against  its  pubUsher.     The  charge  was  that  it  spoke 


INTRODUCTION  9 

offensively  of  rites  held  sacred  by  the  estabhshed  rehgion  of 
Sweden.  Everybody  knew  that  this  was  a  mere  pretext,  and 
that  the  true  grievance  against  the  book  lay  in  its  outspoken 
utterances  on  questions  of  sex  morality.  Urged  by  friends, 
Strindberg  hastened  home  and  succeeded  in  assuming  the 
part  of  defendant  in  place  of  the  publisher.  The  jury  freed 
him,  and  the  youth  of  the  country  proclaimed  him  their 
leader  and  spokesman. 

But  the  impression  left  on  Strindberg's  mind  by  that  epi- 
sode was  very  serious  and  distinctly  unfavourable.  As  in  his 
childhood,  when  he  found  himself  disbelieved  though  telling 
the  truth,  so  he  felt  now  more  keenly  than  anything  else  the 
questioning  of  his  motives,  which  he  knew  to  be  pure.  And 
the  leaders  of  the  feminist  movement,  then  particularly  strong 
in  Sweden,  turned  against  him  with  a  bitterness  not  sur- 
passed by  that  which  Ibsen  had  to  face  from  directly  opposite 
quarters  after  the  publication  of  "A  Doll's  House."  Add 
finally  that  his  marriage,  which  had  begun  so  auspiciously, 
was  rapidly  changing  into  torture  for  both  parties  concerned 
in  it. 

Yet  his  growing  embitterment  did  not  make  itself  felt  at 
once.  In  1885  he  published  four  short  stories  meant  to  em- 
body the  onward  trend  of  the  modern  spirit  and  the  actual 
materialisation  of  some  of  its  fondest  dreams.  Collectively 
he  named  those  stories  "Real  Utopias,"  and  they  went  far 
toward  winning  him  a  reputation  in  Germany,  where  he  was 
then  living. 

But  with  the  appearance  of  the  second  part  of  "Marriage" 
m  1886,  it  was  plain  that  a  change  had  come  over  him.  Its 
eighteen  stories  constituted  an  unmistakable  protest  against 
everything  for  which  the  feminist  movement  stood.  The 
efforts  of  Ibsen  and  Bjornson  to  abolish  the  so-called  "double 
code  of  morality  " — one  for  men  and  another  one  for  women — 


10  INTRODUCTION 

were  openly  challenged  on  the  ground  that  different  results 
made  male  and  female  "immorality"  two  widely  different 
things.  Right  here  it  should  be  pointed  out,  however,  that 
Strindberg  always,  and  especially  in  his  later  years,  has  de- 
manded as  high  a  measure  of  moral  purity  from  men  as 
from  women — the  real  distinction  between  him  and  the  two 
great  Norwegians  lying  in  the  motives  on  which  he  based 
that  demand. 

The  second  part  of  'Marriage'*  shows  a  change  not  only  in 
spirit  but  in  form,  and  this  change  becomes  more  accentuated 
in  every  work  published  during  the  next  few  years.  Until 
then  Strindberg  had  shown  strong  evidence  of  the  Romantic 
origin  of  his  art.  From  now  on,  and  until  the  ending  of  the 
great  mental  crisis  in  the  later  nineties,  he  must  be  classed  as 
an  ultra-naturalist,  with  strong  materialistic  and  sceptical 
leanings.  At  the  same  time  he  becomes  more  and  more 
individualistic  in  his  social  outlook,  spurning  the  mass  which, 
as  he  then  felt,  had  spurned  him.  And  after  a  while  the 
works  of  Nietzsche  came  to  complete  what  his  personal  ex- 
perience had  begun.  His  attitude  toward  woman,  as  finally 
developed  during  this  period,  may  be  summed  up  in  an  allega- 
tion not  only  of  moral  and  mental  but  of  biological  inferiority. 
And  though  during  his  later  life  he  has  retracted  much  and 
softened  more  of  what  he  said  in  those  years  of  rampant 
masculine  rebellion,  he  continues  to  this  day  to  regard  women 
as  an  intermediary  biological  form,  standing  between  the 
man  and  the  child. 

With  the  publication,  in  1887,  of  "The  Father,"  a  modern 
three-act  tragedy,  Strindberg  reached  a  double  climax.  That 
work  has  been  hailed  as  one  of  his  greatest,  if  not  the  great- 
est, as  far  as  technical  perfection  is  concerned.  At  the  same 
time  it  presents  that  duel  of  the  sexes — ^which  to  him  had  taken 
the  place  of  love — in  its  most  startling  and  hideous  aspects. 


INTRODUCTION  11 

The  gloom  of  the  play  is  almost  unsurpassed.  The  ingen- 
iousness  of  its  plot  may  well  be  called  infernal.  By  throwing 
doubt  on  her  husband's  rights  as  father  of  the  child  held  to  be 
theirs  in  common,  the  woman  in  the  play  manages  to  under- 
mine the  reason  of  a  strong  and  well-balanced  man  until  he 
becomes  transformed  into  a  raving  maniac. 

"The  Comrades,"  a  modern  four-act  comedy,  portrays  the 
marriage  of  two  artists  and  shows  the  woman  as  a  menbd 
parasite,  drawing  both  her  inspiration  and  her  skill  from  the 
husband,  whom  she  tries  to  shake  off  when  she  thinks  him 
no  longer  needed  for  her  success.  Then  came  the  play  of  his 
which  is  perhaps  the  most  widely  known — I  mean  the  realistic 
drama  which,  for  want  of  a  better  English  equivalent,  must  be 
named  here  "Miss  Juliet."  It  embodied  some  starthng  ex- 
periments in  form  and  has  undoubtedly  exercised  a  distinct 
influence  on  the  subsequent  development  of  dramatic  tech- 
nique. On  the  surface  it  appears  to  offer  little  more  than 
another  version  of  the  sex  duel,  but  back  of  the  conflict  be- 
tween man  and  woman  we  discover  another  one,  less  deep- 
going  perhaps,  but  rendered  more  acute  by  existing  conditions. 
It  is  the  conflict  between  the  upper  and  partly  outlived 
elements  of  society  and  its  still  unrefined,  but  vitally  unim- 
paired, strata.  And  it  is  the  stronger  vitality,  here  repre- 
sented by  the  man,  which  carries  the  day. 

The  rest  of  Strindberg's  dramatic  productions  during  this 
middle,  naturalistic  period,  lasting  from  1885  to  1894,  in- 
cluded eight  more  one-act  plays,  several  of  which  rank  very 
high,  and  another  fairy  play,  "The  Keys  to  Heaven,"  which 
probably  marks  his  nearest  approach  to  a  purely  negative 
conception  of  life. 

Paralleling  the  plays,  we  find  a  series  of  novels  and  short 
stories  dealing  with  the  people  on  those  islands  where  Strind- 
berg  fifteen  years  earlier  had  written  his  "Master  Oloi." 


12  INTRODUCTION 

Two  things  make  these  works  remarkable:  first,  the  rare 
understanding  shown  in  them  of  the  hfe  led  by  the  tough  race 
that  exists,  so  to  speak,  between  land  and  sea;  and  secondly, 
their  genuine  humour,  which  at  times,  as  in  the  little  story 
named  "The  Tailor  Has  a  Dance,"  rises  into  almost  epic  ex- 
pression. The  last  of  these  novels,  "At  the  Edge  of  the  Sea," 
embodies  Strindberg's  farthest  advance  into  Nietzschean 
dreams  of  supermanhood.  But  led  by  his  incorruptible  logic, 
he  is  forced  to  reduce  those  dreams  to  the  absurdity  which  they 
are  sure  to  involve  whenever  the  superman  feels  himself 
standing  apart  from  ordinary  humanity. 

Finally  he  wrote,  during  the  earlier  part  of  this  marvellously 
prohfic  period,  five  autobiographical  novels.  One  of  these 
was  not  published  until  years  later.  Three  others  were 
collectively  known  as  "The  Bondwoman's  Son,"  and  carried 
his  revelations  up  to  the  time  of  his  marriage.  The  first  vol- 
ume in  the  series  is  especially  noteworthy  because  of  its  search- 
ing and  sympathetic  study  of  child  psychology.  But  all  the 
novels  in  this  series  are  of  high  value  because  of  the  sharp  light 
they  throw  on  social  conditions.  Strindberg's  power  as  an 
acute  and  accurate  observer  has  never  been  questioned,  and 
it  has  rarely  been  more  strikingly  evidenced  than  in  his  auto- 
biographical writings.  A  place  by  itself,  though  belonging  to 
the  same  series,  is  held  by  "iV  Fool's  Confession,"  wherein 
Strindberg  laid  bare  the  tragedy  of  his  first  marriage.  It  is 
the  book  that  has  exposed  him  to  more  serious  criticism  than 
any  other.  He  wrote  it  in  French  and  consented  to  its  pub- 
hcation  only  as  a  last  means  of  escaping  unendurable  finan- 
cial straits.  Against  his  vain  protests,  unauthorised  trans- 
lations were  brought  out  in  German  and  Swedish. 

The  dissolution  of  his  marriage  occurred  in  1891.  The 
circumstances  surrounding  that  break  were  extremely  painful 
to  Strindberg.     Both  the  facts  of  the  legal  procedure  and  the 


INTRODUCTION  13 

feelings  it  evoked  within  himself  have  been  almost  photo- 
graphically portrayed  in  the  one-act  play,  "The  Link,"  which 
forms  part  of  this  volume.  The  "link"  which  binds  man  and 
woman  together  even  when  their  love  is  gone  and  the  law  has 
severed  all  external  ties  is  the  child — and  it  is  always  for  tlie 
offspring  that  Strindberg  reserves  his  tenderest  feelings  and 
greatest  concern. 

After  the  divorce  Strindberg  left  for  Germany,  where  his 
works  in  the  meantime  had  been  making  steady  headway. 
A  couple  of  years  later  he  was  taken  up  in  France,  and  there 
was  a  time  during  the  first  half  of  the  nineties,  when  he  had 
plays  running  simultaneously  at  half  a  dozen  Parisian  theatres. 
While  at  Berlin,  he  met  a  young  woman  writer  of  Austrian 
birth  who  soon  after  became  his  second  wife.  Their  mar- 
riage lasted  only  a  few  years,  and  while  it  was  not  as  un- 
happy as  the  first  one,  it  helped  to  bring  on  the  mental  crisis 
for  which  Strindberg  had  been  heading  ever  since  the  prose- 
cution of  "Marriage,"  in  1884. 

He  ceased  entirely  to  write  and  plunged  instead  into  scien- 
tific speculation  and  experimentation.  Chemistry  was  the 
subject  that  had  the  greatest  fascination  for  him,  and  his 
dream  was  to  prove  the  transmutability  of  the  elements.  In 
the  course  of  a  prolonged  stay  at  Paris,  where  he  shunned 
everybody  and  risked  both  health  and  life  in  his  improvised 
laboratory,  his  mental  state  became  more  and  more  abnor- 
mal, without  ever  reaching  a  point  where  he  ceased  to  real- 
ise just  what  was  going  on  within  himself.  He  began  to 
have  psychic  experiences  of  a  character  that  to  him  appeared 
distinctly  supernatural.  At  the  same  time  he  was  led  by 
the  reading  of  Balzac  to  the  discovery  of  Swedenborg.  By 
quick  degrees,  though  not  without  much  mental  suffering,  he 
rejected  all  that  until  then  had  to  him  represented  life's 
highest  truths.     From  being  a  materialistic  sceptic,  he  be- 


14  INTRODUCTION 

came  a  believing  mystic,  to  whom  this  world  seemed  a  mere 
transitory  state  of  punishment,  a  "heU"  created  by  his  own 
thoughts. 

The  crisis  took  him  in  the  end  to  a  private  sanitarium  kept 
by  an  old  friend  in  the  southern  part  of  Sweden,  but  it  would 
be  far  from  safe  to  assume  that  he  ever  reached  a  state  of 
actual  insanity.  His  return  to  health  began  in  1896  and  was 
completed  in  a  year.  In  1897  he  resumed  his  work  of  artistic 
creation  once  more,  and  with  a  new  spirit  that  startled  those 
who  had  held  him  lost  for  ever.  First  of  all  a  flood  of  personal 
experiences  and  impressions  needed  expression.  This  he  ac- 
complished by  his  two  autobiographical  novels,  "Inferno" 
and  "Legends,"  the  former  of  which  must  be  counted  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  studies  in  abnormal  psychology  in 
the  world's  literature.  Next  came  "The  Link"  and  another 
one-act  play.  In  1898  he  produced  the  first  two  parts  of 
"To  Damascus,"  a  play  that — in  strikingly  original  form,  and 
with  a  depth  of  thought  and  feeling  not  before  achieved — 
embodied  his  own  soul's  long  pilgrimage  in  search  of  internal 
and  external  harmony.  The  last  part  of  the  trilogy  was  not 
added  until  1904. 

Then  followed  ten  years  of  production  so  amazing  that  it 
surpassed  his  previous  high-water  mark  during  the  middle 
eighties,  both  in  quality  and  quantity.  Once  for  all  the 
mood  and  mode  of  his  creation  had  been  settled.  He  was 
still  a  realist  in  so  far  as  faithfulness  to  life  was  concerned, 
but  the  reality  for  which  he  had  now  begun  to  strive  was 
spiritual  rather  than  material.  He  can,  during  this  final 
period,  only  be  classed  as  a  symbolist,  but  of  the  kind  typi- 
fied by  Ibsen  in  the  series  of  masterpieces  beginning  with 
" Rosmersholm "  and  ending  with  "Little  Eyolf." 

More  and  more  as  he  pushes  on  from  one  height  to  another, 
he  manages  to  fuse  the  two  offices  of  artist  and  moralist  with- 


INTRODUCTION  15 

out  injury  to  either  of  them.  His  view  of  Hfe  is  s.till  pessi- 
mistic, but  back  of  man's  earthly  disappointments  and  humil- 
iations and  sufferings  he  glimpses  a  higher  existence  to  which 
this  one  serves  merely  as  a  preparation.  Everything  that 
happens  to  himself  and  to  others  seems  to  reveal  the  per- 
sistent influence  of  secret  powers,  pulling  and  pushing,  re- 
warding and  punishing,  but  always  urging  and  leading  man 
to  some  goal  not  yet  bared  to  his  conscious  vision.  Resig- 
nation, humility,  kindness  become  the  main  virtues  of  human 
existence.  And  the  greatest  tragedy  of  that  existence  he  sees 
in  man's — that  is,  his  own — failure  to  make  all  his  actions  con- 
form to  those  ideals.  Thus,  in  the  closing  line  of  his  last 
play,  "The  Great  Highway,"  he  pleads  for  mercy  as  one  who 
has  suffered  more  than  most  "from  the  inability  to  be  that 
which  we  will  to  be." 

Among  the  earliest  results  of  his  autumnal  renascence  was 
a  five-act  historical  drama  named  "GustaMis  Vasa."  It 
proved  the  first  of  a  dozen  big  plays  dealing  with  the  main 
events  in  his  country's  history  from  the  fifteenth  to  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  As  a  rule  they  were  built  about  a  monarch 
whose  reign  marked  some  national  crisis.  Five  stand  out 
above  the  rest  in  artistic  value:  "Gustavus  Vasa,"  "Eric 
XIV,"  "Gustavus  Adolphus,"  "Charles  XII,"  and  "The 
Last  Knight."  At  once  intensely  national  and  broadly  hu- 
man in  their  spirit,  these  plays  won  for  Strindberg  a  higher 
place  in  his  countrymen's  hearts  than  he  had  ever  before 
held — though  notes  of  discord  were  not  missing  on  account  of 
the  freedom  with  which  he  exposed  and  demolished  false 
idols  and  outlived  national  ideals.  As  they  stand  to-day, 
those  dramas  have  in  them  so  much  of  universal  appeal  that 
I  feel  sure  they  must  sooner  or  later  win  the  same  attention 
in  the  English-speaking  countries  that  they  have  already 
received  in  Germany, 


16  INTRODUCTION 

While  thus  recalling  the  past  to  new  life,  he  was  also  busy 
with  another  group  of  plays  embodying  what  practically 
amounts  to  a  new  dramatic  form.  The  literary  tendency 
underlying  them  might  be  defined  as  realistic  symbolism 
or  impressionistic  mysticism — you  can  take  your  choice! 
The  characters  in  those  plays  are  men  and  woiuen  very 
much  belonging  to  our  own  day.  They  speak  as  you  or 
I  might  do.  And  yet  there  is  in  them  and  about  them  a 
significance  surpassing  not  only  that  of  the  ordinary  indi- 
vidual, but  also  that  of  ordinary  poetical  portrayals  of  such 
individuals. 

"There  Are  Crimes  and  Crimes,"  "Christmas,"  "Easter," 
and  "Midsummer"  are  the  principal  plays  belonging  to 
this  group.  With  them  must  be  classed  the  trio  of  fairy 
or  "dream"  plays  written  under  the  acknowledged  influ- 
ence of  Maeterlinck.  In  the  first  of  these,  the  charming 
dramatic  legend  named  "Swanwhite,"  the  impetus  received 
from  the  Belgian  makes  itself  clearly  felt.  In  the  last 
of  them,  "The  Dream  Play,"  Strindberg  has  worked  out 
a  form  that  is  wholly  new  and  wholly  his  own.  As  the 
play  in  question  forms  part  of  this  volume,  I  shall  not 
need  to  speak  of  it  here  in  the  manner  it  would  other- 
wise deserve. 

Related  to  the  group  just  described,  and  yet  not  confinable 
within  it,  stands  the  double  drama,  "The  Dance  of  Death," 
which  also  appears  in  this  volume.  Numerous  critics  have 
declared  it  Strindberg's  greatest  play,  and  there  is  much  in 
the  work  to  warrant  such  a  judgment.  Its  construction  is 
masterly.  Its  characters  are  almost  shockingly  real.  And 
yet  the  play  as  a  whole  is  saturated  with  that  sense  of  larger 
relationships  which  we  are  wont  to  dispose  of  by  calling  it 
"mysticism."  Like  all  of  Strindberg's  work  belonging  to  this 
period,  it  constitutes   a  huge   piece  of  symbolism — but  the 


INTRODUCTION  17 

subject  of  its  symbolical  interpretation  seems  to  be  nothing 
less  than  the  sum  of  human  interrelationships. 

During  the  last  three  or  four  years  of  the  decade  we  are  now 
dealing  with,  Strindberg  was  very  much  interested  in  the 
project  of  establishing  a  theatre  at  Stockholm,  where  noth- 
ing but  his  own  productions  were  to  be  staged.  The  plan 
was  actually  carried  out  and  a  building  arranged  that  held 
only  about  two  hundred  people.  It  was  called  the  Intimate 
Theatre.  There  Strindberg  made  some  highly  interesting 
experiments  in  the  simplification  and  standardising  of  scenery, 
until  at  last  some  of  his  plays  were  given  with  no  other  acces- 
sories than  draperies.  The  effects  thus  obtained  proved  un- 
expectedly successful.  For  this  stage  Strindberg  wrote  five 
dramas  which  he  defined  as  "chamber  plays."  In  form 
they  harked  back  to  "Miss  Juliet,"  and  they  were  meant  to  be 
played  without  interruptions.  But  in  spirit  they  were  marked 
by  the  same  blend  of  mysticism  and  realism  that  forms  such  a 
striking  feature  of  "The  Dream  Play,"  for  instance.  Add  to 
these  another  fairy  play,  "The  Slippers  of  Abu  Casem,"  and  a 
final  autobiographical  drama  named  "The  Great  Highway," 
and  we  get  a  total  of  twenty-nine  dramatic  works  in  ten  years.^ 

But  at  the  same  time  Strindberg 's  pen  was  no  less  active  in 
other  fields.  There  are  two  more  autobiographical  volumes, 
two  novels  displaying  vast  social  canvasses,  four  collections 
of  short  stories,  and  one  collection  of  poems;  also  three  bulky 
volumes  named  collectively  "The  Blue  Books  "and  contain- 
ing the  most  wonderful  medley  of  scientific  speculations,  philo- 
sophical pronouncements,  personal  polemics,  and  aphoristic 
embodiments  of  the  author's  rich  store  of  wisdom;  and  finally 
a  score  of  pamphlets — analytical  studies  of  Shakespeare  plays, 
instructions  to  the  members  of  the  Intimate  Theatre,  satirical 

'  For  more  critical  treatment  of  Strindberg's  art  I  would  refer  the  reader 
to  my  articles  in  The  Forum  of  February  and  March,  1912. 


18  INTRODUCTION 

studies  of  contemporary  social  and  literary  conditions,  propo- 
sitions for  a  more  complete  democratisation  of  the  govern- 
ment, and  so  on  almost  endlessly.  And  notwithstanding 
much  supercilious  criticism  as  well  as  some  warranted  regrets 
for  the  tone  at  times  employed  in  these  works,  it  is  pretty 
generally  admitted  that  Strindberg  never  has  approached  any 
topic  without  saying  something  worth  while  about  it. 

Outwardly  Strindberg's  life  has  been  very  quiet  since  he  re- 
turned to  his  native  country  in  1897.  A  third  marriage, 
contracted  in  1901  and  dissolved  three  years  later,  served  only 
to  reconcile  him  once  for  all  to  the  solitude  that  has  always 
surrounded  him  more  or  less,  even  in  the  midst  of  admiring 
or  condemning  multitudes.  He  is  now  sixty-three  years  old, 
and  the  last  news  indicates  that,  at  last,  his  iron  health  is 
failing  him.  In  the  sheltered  nook  which  he  has  established 
for  himself  at  Stockholm,  he  busies  himself  with  philological 
studies,  interrupted  mainly  by  visits  from  his  children,  of  which 
there  are  five  from  the  three  marriages.  Two  of  these — his 
eldest  daughter,  who  is  now  happily  married,  and  the  youngest, 
a  vivacious  lass  of  nine  to  whom  "  The  Slippers  of  Abu  Casem  " 
was  dedicated — are  in  the  habit  of  calling  daily.  Flowers 
and  music  are  what  he  loves  next  to  his  children  and  his 
work.  From  that  corner  where  he  hears  nothing  but  echoes 
of  the  storms  that  are  still  raging  at  times  about  his  public 
utterances,  he  follows  with  keen  eye  whatever  is  happening 
in  the  world  of  deeds  as  well  as  in  the  world  of  letters.  And 
in  the  meantime  his  fame  is  steadily  spreading  and  growing. 
On  the  European  continent  his  name  is  constantly  mentioned 
together  with  those  of  Ibsen  and  Bjornson.  In  the  English- 
speaking  countries  it  has  hitherto  remained  merely  a  name. 
The  time  has  surely  come  for  a  realisation  of  some  of  the 
things  that  name  stands  for,  and  it  is  my  earnest  hope  that 
this  volume  may  help  to  change  a  condition  that  reflects 


INTRODUCTION  19 

more  on  those  who  do  not  know  than  on  him  who  is  not 
known. 

In  regard  to  the  style  of  my  translations,  I  wish  to  quote 
some  words  written  before  the  task  now  finished  had  ever 
been  suggested  to  me.  They  are  from  an  article  on  "Slaugh- 
tering Strindberg,"  which  appeared  in  "The  Drama,"  of  Au- 
gust, 1911: 

"Strindberg  is  the  man  who  has  raised  modern  Swedish 
to  its  utmost  potency  of  beauty  and  power.  It  may  also  be 
said,  and  with  equal  truth,  that  he  has  made  the  literary  lan- 
guage of  this  country  truly  modern.  This  he  has  achieved 
not  by  polishing  study-born  mannerisms,  but  by  watching 
and  developing  the  living  idiom  that  flows  from  the  lips  of 
men  and  women  around  him — observed  at  home  and  in  the 
office,  on  the  street  and  in  the  restaurant,  while  loving  and 
dying,  while  chatting  and  quarrelling.  Never  was  a  man 
more  keen  on  catching  the  life  breath  of  his  own  time,  and 
never  was  a  man  more  scornful  of  mere  fads  and  fashions, 
born  one  moment  and  forgotten  in  the  next.  To  transplant 
the  work  of  such  a  man  may  be  difficult,  but  it  involves  no 
impossibility,  provided  only  that  we  observe  his  own  practical 
attitude  toward  what  constitutes  'good  form'  and  'bad  form' 
in  a  pulsing  and  growing  language.  We,  on  this  side  of  the 
ocean,  ought  to  be  able  to  read  Strindberg  and  receive  im- 
pressions virtually  identical  with  those  received  by  a  Swedish 
reader  at  Stockholm.  And  I  believe  that  it  will  be  easier  to 
find  equivalents  for  his  clean-cut  and  flexible  prose  out  of 
what  is  called  English  here  than  out  of  what  bears  that  name 
in  Eneland." 


'o' 


Finally,  I  wish  to  mention  that  the  prologue  now  attached 
to  "The  Dream  Play"  has  never  before  been  published  in 


20  INTRODUCTION 

any  language.  It  was  written  last  year  as  an  afterthougbt, 
and  was  by  the  author  kindly  placed  at  my  disposal  in 
manuscript. 


A   CHRONOLOGICAL   LIST  OF 

AUGUST  STRINDBERG'S 

MAIN  WORKS 

Plaijs:  "Hermione,"  1869;  "The  Outlaw,"  1871;  "Master 
Olof,"  1872;  "The  Secret  of  the  Guild,"  1880;  "Sir  Bengt's 
Lady,"  1882;  "The  Wanderings  of  Lucky-Per,"  1883; 
"The  Father,"  1887;  "The  Comrades,"  1888;  "Miss  Juliet," 
1888;  "Creditors,"  1890;  "Pariah,"  1890;  "Samum," 
1890;  "The  Stronger,"  1890;  "The  Keys  of  Heaven," 
1892;  "The  First  Warning,"  1893;  "Debit  and  Credit," 
1893;  "Mother-Love,"  1893;  "Facing  Death,"  1893; 
"Playing  with  Fire,"  1897;  "The  Link,"  1897;  "To  Da- 
mascus," I  and  II,  1898;  "There  are  Crimes  and  Crimes," 
1899;  "Christmas,"  1899;  "Gustavus  Vasa,"  1899;  "Eric 
XIV,"  1899;  "The  Saga  of  the  Folkungs,"  1899;  "Gustavus 
Adolphus,"  1900;  "The  Dance  of  Death,"  I  and  II,  1901; 
"Easter,"  1901;  "Midsummer,"  1901;  "Engelbreckt," 
1901;  "Charles  XII,"  1901;  "The  Crown  Bride,"  1902; 
"Swanwhite,"  1902;  "The  Dream  Play,"  1902;  "Gustavus 
III,"  1903;  "Queen  Christina,"  1903;  "The  Nightingale  of 
Wittenberg,"  1903;  "To  Damascus,"  III,  1904;  "Storm," 
1907;  "The  Burned  Lot,"  1907;  "The  Spook  Sonata," 
1907;  "The  Pelican,"  1907;  "The  Slippers  of  Abu  Casem," 
1908;  "The  Last  Knight,"  1908;  "The  National  Director," 
1909;  "The  Earl  of  Bjallbo,"  1909;  "The  Black  Glove," 
1909;    "The  Great  Highway,"  1909. 

Novels  and  Short-story  Collections:  "The  Red  Room," 
1879;    "Swedish  Events  and  Adventures,"  1882-91;   "Mar- 

21 


22        CHRONOLOGICAL    LIST 

riage,"  I,  1884;  "Real  Utopias,"  1885;  "Marriage,"  II, 
1886;  "The  People  at  Hemsc),"  1887;  "Fisher  Folks,"  1888; 
"Chandalah,"  1889;  "At  the  Edge  of  the  Sea,"  1890;  "Fa- 
bles," 1890-7;  "Sagas,"  1903;  "The  Gothic  Rooms,"  1904; 
"Historical  Miniatures,"  1905;  "New  Swedish  Events," 
1906;    "Black  Flags,"  1907;    "The  Scapegoat,"  1907. 

Autobiographical  Fiction:  "The  Bondwoman's  Son," 
I-III,  1886-7;  "The  Author,"  1887;  "A  Fool's  Confession," 
1888;  "Inferno,"  1897;  "Legends,"  1898;  "Fairhaven  and 
Foulstrand,"  1902;   "Alone,"  1903. 

History,  Essays,  Etc.:  "The  New  Kingdom,"  1882; 
"The  Swedish  People,"  1882;  "Little  Studies  of  Plants  and 
Animals,"  1888;  "Among  French  Peasants,"  1889;  "A 
Blue  Book,"  I-III,  1907-8;  "Speeches  to  the  Swedish  Na- 
tion," 1910;  "Religious  Renascence,"  1910;  "The  Origins 
of  Our  Mother  Tongue,"  1910;  "Biblical  Proper  Names," 
1910. 


THE    DREAM    PLAY 
1902 


A    REMINDER 

As  he  did  in  his  previous  dream  play,^  so  in  this  one  the 
author  has  tried  to  imitate  the  disconnected  but  seemingly 
logical  form  of  the  dream.  Anything  may  happen;  every- 
thing is  possible  and  probable.  Time  and  space  do  not 
exist.  On  an  insignificant  background  of  reality,  imagina- 
tion designs  and  embroiders  novel  patterns:  a  medley  of 
memories,  experiences,  free  fancies,  absurdities  and  impro- 
visations. 

The  characters  split,  double,  multiply,  vanish,  solidify, 
blur,  clarify.  But  one  consciousness  reigns  above  them  all — 
that  of  the  dreamer;  and  before  it  there  are  no  secrets,  no 
incongruities,  no  scruples,  no  laws.  There  is  neither  judg- 
ment nor  exoneration,  but  merely  narration.  And  as  the 
dream  is  mostly  painful,  rarely  pleasant,  a  note  of  melan- 
choly and  of  pity  with  all  living  things  runs  right  through 
the  wabbly  tale.  Sleep,  the  liberator,  plays  often  a  dismal 
part,  but  when  the  pain  is  at  its  worst,  the  awakening  comes 
and  reconciles  the  sufferer  with  reality,  which,  however  dis- 
tressing it  may  be,  nevertheless  seems  happy  in  comparison 
with  the  torments  of  the  dream. 

1  The  trilogy  "  To  Damascus." 


PROLOGUE 

The  background  represents  cloud  banks  that  resemble  corroding 
slate  cliffs  with  rui?is  of  castles  and  fortresses. 

The  constellations  of  Leo,  Virgo,  and  Libra  are  visible,  and 
from  their  midst  the  planet  Jupiter  is  shining  with  a  strong 
light. 

The   Daughter   op   Indra  stands   on  the   topmost 
cloud. 

The  Voice  of  Indra  [from  above]. 

Where  are  you,  daughter,  where  ? 
The  Daughter, 

Here,  father,  here. 

The  Voice. 

You've  lost  your  way,  my  child — beware,  you  sink — 
How  got  you  there  ? 

The  Daughter. 

I  followed  from  ethereal  heights  the  ray 

Of  lightning,  and  for  car  a  cloud  I  took— 

It  sank,  and  now  my  journey  downward  tends. 

O,  noble  father,  Indra,  tell  what  realms 

I  now  draw  near  ?     The  air  is  here  so  close. 

And  breathing  difficult. 

The  Voice. 

Behind  you  lies  the  second  world;  the  third 
Is  where  you  stand.     From  Cukra,  morning  star 

25 


26  THEDREAMPLAY 

You  have  withdrawn  yourself  to  enter  soon 
The  vapoury  circle  of  the  earth.     For  mark 
The  Seventh  House  you  take.     It's  Ivibra  called: 
There  stands  the  day-star  in  the  balanced  hour 
When  Fall  gives  equal  weight  to  night  and  day. 

The  Daughter. 

You  named  the  earth — is  that  the  ponderous  world 
And  dark,  that  from  the  moon  must  take  it^  light  ? 

The  Voice. 

It  is  the  heaviest  and  densest  sphere 
Of  all  that  travel  through  the  space. 

The  Daughter. 

And  is  it  never  brightened  by  the  sun  ? 

The  Voice. 

Of  course,  the  sun  does  reach  it — now  and  then — 

The  Daughter. 

There  is  a  rift,  and  downward  goes  my  glance 

The  Voice. 

What  sees  my  child .'' 

The  Daughter. 

I  see — O  beautiful! — with  forests  green. 


With  waters  blue,  white  peaks,  and  yellow  fields- 

The  Voice. 

Yes,  beautiful  as  all  that  Brahma  made — 
But  still  more  beautiful  it  was  of  yore. 
In  primal  morn  of  ages.     Then  occurred 
Some  strange  mishap;   the  orbit  was  disturbed; 
Rebellion  led  to  crime  that  called  for  check 

The  Daughter. 

Now  from  below  I  hear  some  sounds  arise — 
W^hat  sort  of  race  is  dwelling  there  ? 


THE    DREAM   PLAY  27 

The  Voice. 

See  for  yourself — Of  Brahma's  work  no  ill 
I  say:  but  what  you  hear,  it  is  their  speech. 

The  Daughter. 

It  sounds  as  if — it  has  no  happy  ring! 

The  Voice. 

I  fear  me  not — for  even  their  mother-tongue 

Is  named  complaint.     A  race  most  hard  to  please. 

And  thankless,  are  the  dwellers  on  the  earth 

The  Daughter. 

O,  say  not  so — for  I  hear  cries  of  joy, 

Hear  noise  and  thunder,  see  the  lightnings  flash — 

Now  bells  are  ringing,  fires  are  lit. 

And  thousand  upon  thousand  tongues 

Sing  praise  and  thanks  unto  the  heavens  on  high — 

Too  harshly,  father,  you  are  judging  them. 

The  Voice. 

Descend,  that  you  may  see  and  hear,  and  then 
Return  and  let  me  know  if  their  complaints 
And  wailings  have  some  reasonable  ground 

The  Daughter. 

Well  then,  I  go;  but,  father,  come  with  me. 

The  Voice. 

No,  there  below  I  cannot  breathe 

The  Daughter. 

Now  sinks  the  cloud — what  sultriness — I  choke! 
I  am  not  breathing  air,  but  smoke  and  steam — 
With  heavy  weight  it  drags  me  down, 
And  I  can  feel  already  how  it  rolls — 
Indeed,  the  best  of  worlds  is  not  the  third 


28  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Voice. 

The  best  I  cannot  call  it,  nor  the  worst. 
Its  name  is  Dust;   and  like  them  all,  it  rolls: 
And  therefore  dizzy  sometimes  grows  the  race, 
And  seems  to  be  half  foolish  and  half  mad — 
Take  courage,  child — a  trial,  that  is  all! 

The  Daughter.  [Kneeling  as  the  cloud  dnks  downward] 
I  sink! 

Curtain. 


THE  DREAM  PLAY 

The  background  represents  a  forest  of  gigantic  hollyhocks  in 
bloom.  They  are  ivhite,  pink,  crimson,  sulphureous,  vio- 
let; and  above  their  tops  is  seen  the  gilded  roof  of  a  castle, 
the  apex  of  which  is  formed  by  a  bud  resembling  a  croum. 
At  the  foot  of  the  castle  walls  stand  a  number  ofstraio  ricks, 
and  around  these  stable  litter  is  scattered.  The  side-scenes, 
which  remain  unchanged  throughout  the  play,  show  con- 
ventionalised frescoes,  suggesting  at  once  internal  decora- 
tion, architecture,  and  landscape. 

Enter  The  Glazier  and  The  Daughter. 

The  Daughter.  The  castle  is  growing  higher  and  higher 
above  the  ground.  Do  you  see  how  much  it  has  grown  since 
last  year  ? 

The  Glazier.  [To  himself]  I  have  never  seen  this  castle 
before — have  never  heard  of  a  castle  that  grew,  but — [To  The 
Daughter,  icithfirm  conviction]  Yes,  it  has  grown  two  yards, 
but  that  is  because  they  have  manured  it — and  if  you  notice,  it 
has  put  out  a  wing  on  the  sunny  side. 

The  Daughter.  Ought  it  not  to  be  blooming  soon,  as  we 
are  already  past  midsummer  ? 

The  Glazier.  Don't  you  see  the  flower  up  there  ? 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  I  see!  [Claps  her  hands]  Say,  fa- 
ther, why  do  flowers  grow  out  of  dirt  ? 

The  Glazier,  [Simply]  Because  they  do  not  feel  at  home 
m  the  dirt,  and  so  they  make  haste  to  get  up  into  the  light 
in  order  to  blossom  and  die. 

29 


30  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Daughter.  Do  you  know  who  lives  in  that  castle  ? 

The  Glazier.  I  have  known  it,  but  cannot  remember. 

The  Daughter.  I  believe  a  prisoner  is  kept  there — and 
he  must  be  waiting  for  me  to  set  him  free. 

The  Glazier.  And  what  is  he  to  pay  for  it? 

The  Daughter.  One  does  not  bargain  about  one's  duty. 
Let  us  go  into  the  castle. 

The  Glazier.  Yes,  let  us  go  in. 
They  go  toicard  the  background,  which  opens  and  slowly  dis- 
appears to  either  side. 
The  stage  shows  now  a  humble,  bare  room,  containing  only  a 
table  and  a  few  chairs.  On  one  of  the  chairs  sits  an  officer, 
dressed  in  a  very  unusual  yet  modern  uniform.  He  is  tilt- 
ing the  chair  backward  and  beating  the  table  with  his  sabre. 

The  Daughter.  [Goes  to  the  officer,  from  whose  hand  she 
gently  takes  the  sabre]  Don't!    Don't! 

The  Officer.  Oh,  Agnes  dear,  let  me  keep  the  sabre. 

The  Daughter.  No,  you  break  the  table.  [To  The  Gla- 
zier] Now  you  go  down  to  the  harness-room  and  fix  that  win- 
dow pane.     We'll  meet  later. 

[The  Glazier  goes  out. 

The  Daughter.  You  are  imprisoned  in  your  own  rooms — 
I  have  come  to  set  you  free. 

The  Officer.  I  have  been  waiting  for  you,  but  I  was  not 
sure  you  were  willing  to  do  it. 

The  Daughter.  The  castle  is  strongly  built;  it  has  seven 
walls,  but — it  can  be  done ! — Do  you  want  it,  or  do  you  not  ? 

The  Officer.  Frankly  speaking,  I  cannot  tell — for  in 
either  case  I  shall  suffer  pain.  Every  joy  that  life  brings  has 
to  be  paid  for  with  twice  its  measure  of  sorrow.  It  is  hard  to 
stay  where  I  am,  but  if  I  buy  the  sweets  of  freedom,  then  I  shall 
have  to  suffer  twice  as  much — Agnes,  I'll  rather  endure  it  as 
it  is,  if  I  can  only  see  you. 


THEDREAMPLAY  31 

The  Daughter.  What  do  you  see  in  me  ? 

The  Officer.  Beauty,  wliich  is  the  harmony  of  the  uni- 
verse— There  are  lines  of  your  body  which  are  nowhere 
to  be  found,  except  in  the  orbits  of  the  solar  system,  in  strings 
that  are  singing  softly,  or  in  the  vibrations  of  light — You  are 
a  child  of  heaven 

The  Daughter.  So  are  you. 

The  Officer.  Why  must  I  then  keep  horses,  tend  stable, 
and  cart  straw  ? 

The  Daughter.  So  that  you  may  long  to  get  away  from 
here. 

The  Officer.  I  am  longing,  but  it  is  so  hard  to  find  one's 

way  out. 

The  Daughter.  But  it  is  a  duty  to  seek  freedom  in  the 

light. 

The  Officer.  Duty.?     Life    has    never    recognised    any 

duties  toward  me. 

The  Daughter.  You  feel  yourself  wronged  by  life  ? 

The  Officer.  Yes,  it  has  been  unjust 

Now  voices  are  heard  from  behind  a  partition,  which  a  moment 
later  is  pulled  away.     The  Officer  and  The  Daughter 
look  in  that  direction  and  stop  as  if  paralysed  in  the  midst 
of  a  gesture. 
At  a  table  sits  The  Mother,  looking  very  sick.     In  front  of 
her  a  tallow  candle  is  burning,  and  every  little  while  she 
trims  it  with  a  pair  of  snuffers.     The  table  is  piled  with 
new-made  shirts,  and  these  she  is  marking  with  a  quill  and 
ink.     To  the  left  stands  a  brown-coloured  wardrobe. 
The  Father.  [Holds   out   a   silk   mantilla   totoard   The 
Mother  and  says  genthj]  You  don't  want  it  ? 

The  Mother.  A  silk  mantilla  for  me,  my  dear— of  what 
use  would  that  be  when  I  am  going  to  die  shortly  ? 
The  Father.  Do  you  believe  what  the  doctor  says  ? 


32  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Mother.  Yes,  I  believe  also  what  he  says,  but  still 
more  what  the  voice  says  in  liere. 

The  Father.  [Sadly]  It  is  true  then  ? — And  you  are  tliink- 
ing  of  your  children  first  and  last. 

The  Mother.  That  has  been  my  life  and  mv  reason  for 
living — my  joy  and  my  sorrow 

The  Father.  Christine,  forgive  me — everything! 

The  Mother.  What  have  I  to  forgive  ?  Dearest,  you  for- 
give me  !  We  have  been  tormenting  each  other.  Why  ?  That 
we  may  not  know.  We  couldn't  do  anything  else — However, 
here  is  the  new  linen  for  the  children.  See  that  they  change 
twice  a  week — ^Wednesdays  and  Sundays — and  that  Louise 
washes  them — their  whole  bodies — Are  you  going  out  ? 

The  Father.  I  have  to  be  in  the  Department  at  eleven 
o'clock. 

The  Mother.  Ask  Alfred  to  come  in  before  you  go. 

The  Father.  [Pointing  to  The  Officer]  Why,  he  is 
standing  right  there,  dear  heart. 

The  Mother.  So  my  eyes  are  failing,  too — Yes,  it  is  turn- 
ing dark.  [T rims  the  candle]  Come  here,  Alfred. 

The  Father  goes  out  through  the  middle  of  the  wall, 

nodding  good-hje  as  he  leaves. 
The  Officer  goes  over  to  The  Mother. 

The  Mother.  Who  is  that  girl  ? 

The  Officer.  [IVhisjiers]  It  is  Agnes, 

The  Mother.  Oh,  is  that  Agnes  ? — Do  you  know  what 
they  say  ? — That  she  is  a  daughter  of  the  god  Indra  who  has 
asked  leave  to  descend  to  the  earth  in  order  that  she  may  find 
out  what  the  conditions  of  men  are — But  don't  say  anything 
about  it. 

The  Officer.  A  child  of  the  gods,  indeed ! 

The  Mother.  [Aloud]  My  Alfred,  I  must  soon  part  from 


THE   DREAM   PLAY  S5 

you  and  from  the  other  children — But  let  me  first  speak  a 
word  to  you  that  bears  on  all  the  rest  of  your  life. 

The  Officer.  [Sadly]  Speak,  mother. 

The  Mother.  Only  a  word:  don't  quarrel  with  God! 

The  Officer.  What  do  you  mean,  mother  ? 

The  Mother.  Don't  go  around  feeling  that  life  has 
wronged  you. 

The  Officer.  But  when  I  am  treated  unjustly 

The  Mother.  You  are  thinking  of  the  time  when  you 
were  unjustly  punished  for  having  taken  a  penny  that  later 
turned  up .'' 

The  Officer.  Yes,  and  that  one  wrong  gave  a  false  twist 
to  my  whole  life 

The  Mother.  Perhaps.  But  please  take  a  look  into  that 
wardrobe  now 

The  Officer.  [Enibarrassed]  You  know,  then  ?    It  is 

The  Mother.  The  Swiss  Family  Robinson — for  which 

The  Officer.  Don't  say  any  more! 

The  Mother.  For  which  your  brother  was  punished — 
and  which  you  had  torn  and  hidden  away. 

The  Officer.  Just  think  that  the  old  wardrobe  is  still 
standing  there  after  twenty  years —  We  have  moved  so 
many  times,  and  my  mother  died  ten  years  ago. 

The  Mother.  Yes,  and  what  of  it  ?  You  are  always  ask- 
ing all  sorts  of  questions,  and  in  that  way  you  spoil  the  better 
part  of  your  life — There  is  Lena,  now. 

Lena.  [Enters]  Thank  you  very  much,  ma'am,  but  I  can't 
go  to  the  baptism. 

The  Mother.  And  why  not,  my  girl  ? 

Lena.  I  have  nothing  to  put  on. 

The  Mother.  I'll  let  you  use  my  mantilla  here 

Lena.  Oh,  no,  ma'am,  that  wouldn't  do! 


34  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Mother.  Why  not? —  It  is  not  likely  that  I'll  go 
to  any  more  parties. 

The  Officer.  And  what  will  father  say  ?  It  is  a  present 
from  him 

The  Mother.    What  small  minds 


The  Father.  [P^ds  his  head  through  the  wall]  Are  you 
going  to  lend  my  present  to  the  servant  girl  ? 

The  Mother.  Don't  talk  that  way!  Can  you  not  re- 
member that  I  was  a  servant  girl  also?  Why  should  you 
offend  one  who  has  done  nothing? 

The  Father.  Why  should  you  offend  me,  your  husband  ? 
The  Mother.  Oh,   this  life!     If  you  do  anything  nice, 
there   is   always   somebody  who  finds  it  nasty.     If  you  act 
kindly  to  one,  it  hurts  another.     Oh,  this  life! 

She  trims  the  candle  so  that  it  goes  out.     The  stage  turns 
dark  and  the  'partition  is  pushed  hack  to  its  former 
position. 
The  Daughter.  Men  are  to  be  pitied. 
The  Officer.  You  think  so  ? 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  life  is  hard — but  love  overcomes 
everything.     You  shall  see  for  yourself. 

[They  go  toward  the  background. 
The  background  is  raised  and  a  new  one  revealed,  showing  an 
old,  dilapidated  party-wall.  In  the  centre  of  it  is  a  gate 
closing  a  passageway.  This  opens  upon  a  green,  sunlit 
space,  where  is  seen  a  tremendous  blue  monk's-hood  (aco- 
nite) .  To  the  left  of  the  gate  sits  The  Portress.  Her  head 
and  shoulders  are  covered  by  a  shawl,  and  she  is  crochet- 
ing at  a  bed-spread  with  a  star-like  pattern.  To  the  right 
of  the  gate  is  a  billboard,  which  The  Billposter  is  clean- 
ing. Beside  him  stands  a  dipnet  with  a  green  pole.  Fur- 
ther to  the  right  is  a  door  that  has  an  air-hole  shaped  like  a 


THEDREAMPLAY  35 

four-leaved  clover.  To  the  left  of  the  gate  stands  a  small 
linden  tree  with  coal-black  trunk  and  a  few  pale-green  leaves. 
Near  it  is  a  small  air-hole  leading  into  a  cellar.^ 

The  Daughter.  [Going  to  The  Portress]  Is  the  spread 
not  done  yet  ? 

The  Portress.  No,  dear.  Twenty-six  years  on  such  a 
piece  of  work  is  not  much. 

The  Daughter.  And  your  lover  never  came  back  ? 

The  Portress.  No,  but  it  was  not  his  fault.  He  had  to 
go — poor  thing!     That  was  thirty  years  ago  now. 

The  Daughter.  [To  The  Billposter]  She  belonged  to 
the  ballet  ?     Up  there  in  the  opera-house  ? 

The  Billposter.  She  was  number  one — but  when  he 
went,  it  was  as  if  her  dancing  had  gone  with  him — and  so  she 
didn't  get  any  more  parts. 

The  Daughter.  Everybody  complains — with  their  eyes, 
at  least,  and  often  with  words  also 

The  Billposter.  I  don't  complain  very  much — not  now, 
since  I  have  a  dipnet  and  a  green  cauf  ' 

The  Daughter.  And  that  can  make  you  happy  ? 

The  Billposter.  Oh,  I'm  so  happy,  so —  It  was  the 
dream  of  my  youth,  and  now  it  has  come  true.  Of  course, 
I  have  grown  to  be  fifty  years 

The  Daughter.  Fifty  years  for  a  dipnet  and  a  cauf 

The  Billposter.  A  green  cauf — mind  you,  green 


The  Daughter.  [To  The  Portress]  Let  me  have  the 

shawl  now,  and  I  shall  sit  here  and  watch  the  human  children. 

But  you  must  stand  behind  me  and  tell  me  about  everything. 

[She  takes  the  shawl  and  sits  down  at  the  gate. 

1  Though  the  author  says  nothing  about  it  here,  subsequent  stage 
directions  indicate  a  door  and  a  window  behind  the  place  occupied  by 
The  Portress.  Both  lead  into  her  room  or  lodge,  which  contains  a 
telephone. 

*  A  floating  wooden  box  witli  holes  in  it  used  to  hold  fish. 


36  THE   DREAM   PLAY 

The  Portress.  This  is  the  last  day,  and  the  house  will  be 
closed  up  for  the  season.  This  is  the  day  when  they  learn 
whether  their  contracts  are  to  be  renewed. 

The  Daughter.  And  those  that  fail  of  engagement 

The  Portress.  O,  Lord  have  mercy!  I  pull  the  shawl 
over  my  head  not  to  see  them. 

The  Daughter.  Poor  human  creatures! 
The  Portress.  Look,  here  comes  one — She's  not  one  of 
the  chosen.     See,  how  she  cries. 

The  Singer  enters  from  the  right;   rushes  through  the 
gate  with  her  handkercJiief  to  her  eyes;  stops  for  a 
moment  in  the  passagetvay  beijond  the  gate  and  leans 
her  head  against  the  wall;  then  out  quickly. 
The  Daughter.  Men  are  to  be  pitied! 
The  Portress.  But  look  at  this  one.     That's  the  way  a 
happy  person  looks. 

The  Officer  enters  through  the  passagetvay;  dressed 
in  Prince  Albert  coat  and  high  hat,  and  carrying  a 
bunch  of  roses  in  one  hand;  he  is  radiantly  happy. 
The  Portress.  He's  going  to  marry  Miss  Victoria. 
The  Officer.  [Far  down  on  the  stage,  looks  up  and  sings] 
Victoria! 

The  Portress.  The  young  lady  will  be  coming  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

The  Officer.  Good!  The  carriage  is  waiting,  the  table 
is  set,  the  wine  is  on  ice —  Oh,  permit  me  to  embrace  you, 
ladies!  [He  embraces  The  Portress  aiid  The  Daughter. 
Sings]  Victoria! 

A  Woman's  Voice  From  Above.  [Sings]  I  am  here! 
The  Daughter.  Do  you  know  me  ? 

The  Officer.  No,  I  know  one  woman  only — Victoria. 
Seven  years  I  have  come  here  to  wait  for  her — at  noon,  when 
the  sun  touched  the  chimneys,  and  at  night,  when  it  was  grow- 


THEDREAMPLAY  37 

ing  dark.  Look  at  the  asphalt  here,  and  you  will  see  the  path 
worn  by  the  steps  of  a  faithful  lover.  Hooray!  She  is  mine. 
[Si7igs]  Victoria!  [There  is  no  repli/]  Well,  she  is  dressing,  I 
suppose.  [To  The  Billposter]  There  is  the  dipnet,  I  see. 
Everybody  belonging  to  the  opera  is  crazy  about  dipnets — or 
rather  about  fishes — because  the  fishes  are  dumb  and  cannot 
sing! —     What  is  the  price  of  a  thing  like  that? 

The  Billposter.  It  is  rather  expensive. 

The  Officer.  [Smt/s]  Victoria!  [Shakes  the  linden  tree] 
Look,  it  is  turning  green  once  more.  For  the  eighth  time. 
[Sin^jT*]  Victoria! —  Now  she  is  fixing  her  hair.  [To  The 
Daughter]  Look  here,  madam,  could  I  not  go  up  and  get 
my  bride  ? 

The  Portress.  Nobody  is  allowed  on  the  stage. 

The  Officer.  Seven  years  I  have  been  coming  here. 
Seven  times  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  makes  two  thousand 
five  hundred  and  fifty-five.  [Stops  and  pokes  at  the  door  with 
the  four-leaved  clover  hole]  And  I  have  been  looking  two  thou- 
sand five  hundred  and  fifty-five  times  at  that  door  without  dis- 
covering where  it  leads.  And  that  clover  leaf  which  is  to  let 
in  light — for  whom  is  the  light  meant?  Is  there  anybody 
within  ?     Does  anybody  live  there  ? 

The  Portress.  I  don't  know.  I  have  never  seen  it 
opened. 

The  Officer.  It  looks  like  a  pantry  door  which  I  saw 
once  when  I  was  only  four  years  old  and  went  visiting  with  the 
maid  on  a  Sunday  afternoon.  We  called  at  several  houses — 
on  other  maids — but  I  did  not  get  beyond  the  kitchen  any- 
where, and  I  had  to  sit  between  the  water  barrel  and  the  salt 
box.  I  have  seen  so  many  kitchens  in  my  days,  and  the  pan- 
try was  always  just  outside,  with  small  round  holes  bored 
in  the  door,  and  one  big  hole  like  a  clover  leaf —  But  there 
cannot  be  any  pantry  in  the  opera-house  as  they  have  no 


38  THEDREAMPLAY 

kitchen.  [Sings]  Victoria! —    Tell  me,  madam,  could  she  have 
gone  out  any  other  way  ? 

The  Portress.  No,  there  is  no  other  way. 

The  Officer.  Well,  then  I  shall  see  her  here. 

Stage  People  rush  out  and  are  closely  watched  by  The 
Officer  as  they  pass. 

The  Officer.  Now  she  must  soon  be  coming —  Madam, 
that  blue  monk's-hood  outside — I  have  seen  it  since  I  was  a 
child.  Is  it  the  same  ? —  I  remember  it  from  a  country  rec- 
tory where  I  stopped  when  I  was  seven  years  old —  There 
are  two  doves,  two  blue  doves,  under  the  hood — but  that  time 
a  bee  came  flying  and  went  into  the  hood.  Then  I  thought: 
now  I  have  you !  And  I  grabbed  hold  of  the  flower.  But  the 
sting  of  the  bee  went  through  it,  and  I  cried — but  then  the 
rector's  wife  came  and  put  damp  dirt  on  the  sting — and  we 
had  strawberries  and  cream  for  dinner —  I  think  it  is  getting 
dark  already.  [To  The  Billposter]  Where  are  you  going? 

The  Billposter.  Home  for  supper. 

The  Officer.  [Draws  his  hand  across  his  eyes]  Evening  ? 
At  this  time  ? —  O,  please,  may  I  go  in  and  telephone  to  the 
Growing  Castle  ? 

The  Daughter.  What  do  you  want  there  ? 

The  Officer.  I  am  going  to  tell  the  Glazier  to  put  in 
double  windows,  for  it  will  soon  be  winter,  and  I  am  feeling 
horribly  cold.  [Goes  into  the  gatekeeper's  lodge. 

The  Daughter.  Who  is  Miss  Victoria  ? 

The  Portress.  His  sweetheart. 

The  Daughter.  Right  said !  What  she  is  to  us  and  others 
matters  nothing  to  him.  And  what  she  is  to  him,  that  alone 
is  her  real  self. 

It  is  suddenly  turning  dark. 

The  Portress.  [Lights  a  lantern]  It  is  growing  dark  early 
to-day. 


THEDREAMPLAY  39 

The  Daughter.  To  the  gods  a  year  is  as  a  minute. 

The  Portress.  And  to  men  a  minute  may  be  as  long  as  a 
year. 

The  Officer.  [Enters  again,  looking  dusty;  the  roses  are 
uiithered]  She  has  not  come  yet  ? 

The  Portress.  No. 

The  Officer.  But  she  will  come —  She  will  come!  [Walks 
up  and  down]  But  come  to  think  of  it,  perhaps  I  had  better  call 
off  the  dinner  after  all — as  it  is  late  ?     Yes,  I  will  do  that. 

[Goes  back  into  the  lodge  and  telephones. 

The  Portress.  [To  The  Daughter]  Can  I  have  my 
shawl  back  now  ? 

The  Daughter.  No,  dear,  be  free  a  while.  I  shall  attend 
to  your  duties — for  I  want  to  study  men  and  life,  and  see 
whether  things  really  are  as  bad  as  they  say. 

The  Portress.  But  it  won't  do  to  fall  asleep  here — never 
sleep  night  or  day 

The  Daughter.  No  sleep  at  night  ? 

The  Portress.  Yes,  if  you  are  able  to  get  it,  but  only  with 
the  bell  string  tied  around  the  wrist— for  there  are  night  watch- 
men on  the  stage,  and  they  have  to  be  relieved  every  third 
hour. 

The  Daughter.  But  that  is  torture! 

The  Portress.  So  you  think,  but  people  like  us  are  glad 
enough  to  get  such  a  job,  and  if  you  only  knew  how  envied  I 
am 

The  Daughter.  Envied  ? —    Envy  for  the  tortured  ? 

The  Portress.  Yes—  But  I  can  tell  you  what  is  harder 
than  all  drudging  and  keeping  awake  nights,  harder  to  bear 
than  draught  and  cold  and  dampness — it  is  to  receive  the  con- 
fidences of  all  the  unhappy  people  up  there —  They  all  come 
to  me.  Why  ?  Perhaps  they  read  in  the  wrinkles  of  my  face 
some  runes  that  are  graved  by  suffering  and  that  invite  con- 


40  THEDREAMPLAY 

fessions —     In  that  shawl,  dear,  He  hidden  thirty  years  of  my 
own  and  other  people's  agonies. 

The  Daughter.  It  is  heavy,  and  it  burns  like  nettles. 

The  Portress.  Asitisyourwish,  youmay  wear  it.  When 
it  grows  too  burdensome,  call  me,  and  I  shall  relieve  you. 

The  Daughter.  Good-bye.  What  can  be  done  by  you 
ought  not  to  surpass  my  strength. 

The  Portress.  We  shall  see! —  But  be  kind  to  my  poor 
friends,  and  don't  grow  impatient  of  their  complaints. 

[She  disappears  through  the  passageway. 
Complete  darkness  coirrs  the  stage,  and  while  it  lasts  the  scene  is 
changed  so  that  the  linden  tree  appears  stripped  of  all  its 
leaves.  Sooji  the  blue  monk's-hood  is  toithercd,  and  ichen 
the  light  returns,  the  verdure  in  the  open  space  beyond  the 
passageicay  has  changed  into  autumnal  broivn. 

The  Officer.  [Enters  when  it  is  light  again.  He  has  gray 
hair  and  a  gray  beard.  His  clothes  are  shabby,  his  collar  is 
soiled  and  torinkled.  Nothing  but  the  bare  stems  remain  oj 
the  bunch  of  roses.  He  walks  to  and  fro]  To  judge  by  all 
signs.  Summer  is  gone  and  Fall  has  come.  The  linden  shows 
it,  and  the  monk's-hood  also.  [Walks]  But  the  Fall  is  my 
Spring,  for  then  the  opera  begins  again,  and  then  she  must 
come.     Please,  madam,  may  I  sit  down  a  little  on  this  chair  ? 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  sit  down,  friend —  I  am  able  to 
stand. 

The  Officer.  [Sits  doivn]  If  I  could  only  get  some  sleep, 
then  I  should  feel  better — [He  falls  asleep  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  he  jumps  up  and  walks  back  andfoiih  again.  Stops  at 
last  in  front  of  the  door  with  the  clover  leaf  and  pokes  at  it]  This 
door  here  will  not  leave  me  any  peace — what  is  behind  it? 
There  must  be  something.  [Faint  dance  music  is  heard  from 
above]  Oh,  now  the  rehearsals  have  begun.  [The  light  goes  out 
and  flares  up  again,  repeating  this  rhythmically  as  the  rays  of  a 


THEDREAMPLAY  41 

lighthouse  come  and  go]  What  does  this  mean  ?  [Speaking  in 
time  with  the  blinkings  of  the  light]  Light  and  dark — Hght  and 
dark? 

The  Daughter.  [Imitating  him]  Night  and  day — night 
and  day !     A  merciful  Providence  wants  to  shorten  your  wait. 
Therefore  the  days  are  flying  in  hot  pursuit  of  the  nights. 
The  light  shines  unbrokcnly  once  more. 
The  Billposter  enters  with  his  dipnet  and  his  imple- 
ments. 

The  Officer.  There  is  the  Billposter  with  his  dipnet. 
Was  the  fishing  good  ? 

The  Billposter.  I  should  say  so.  The  Summer  was  hot 
and  a  little  long — the  net  turned  out  pretty  good,  but  not  as  I 
had  expected. 

The  Officer.  [With  emphasis]  Not  as  I  had  expected! — 
That  is  well  said.  Nothing  ever  was  as  I  expected  it  to  be — 
because  the  thought  is  more  than  the  deed,  more  than  the 
thing. 

Walks  to  and  fro,  striking  at  the  wall  with  the  rose  stems 
so  that  the  last  few  leaves  fall  off. 

The  Billposter.  Has  she  not  come  down  yet? 

The  Officer.  Not  yet,  but  she  will  soon  be  here —  Do 
you  know  what  is  behind  that  door,  Billposter  ? 

The  Billposter.  No,  I  have  never  seen  that  door  open 
yet. 

The  Officer.  I  am  going  to  telephone  for  a  locksmith  to 

-"ome  and  open  it.  [Goes  into  the  lodge. 

[The  Billposter  posts  a  hill  and  goes  toward  the  right. 

The  Daughter.  What  is  the  matter  with  the  dipnet  ? 

The  Billposter.  Matter?  Well,  I  don't  know  as  there 
is  anything  the  matter  with  it — but  it  just  didn't  turn  out  as  I 
had  expected,  and  the  pleasure  of  it  was  not  so  much  after  all. 

The  Daughter.  How  did  you  expect  it  to  be  ? 


42  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Billposter.  How?—  Well,  I  couldn't  tell  ex- 
actly  

The  Daughter.  I  can  tell  you!  You  had  expected  it  to 
be  what  it  was  not.  It  had  to  be  green,  but  not  that  kind  of 
green. 

The  Billposter.  You  have  it,  madam.  You  understand 
it  all — and  that  is  why  everybody  goes  to  you  with  his  worries. 

If  you  would  only  listen  to  me  a  little  also 

The  Daughter.  Of  course,  I  will! —    Come  in  to  me  and 

pour  out  your  heart.  [She  goes  into  the  lodge. 

[The  Billposter  remains  outside,  speaking  to  her. 

The  stage  is  darkened  again.     When  the  light  is  turned  on,  the 

tree  has  resumed  its  leaves,  the  monk's-hood  is  blooming 

once  more,  and  the  sun  is  shining  on  the  green  space  beyond 

the  passageway. 

The  Officer  enters.     Now  he  is  old  and  white-haired, 
ragged,  and  wearing  worn-out  shoes.     He  carries  the 
bare  remnants  of  the  rose  stems.     Walks  to  and  fro 
slotoly,  with  the  gait  of  an  aged  man.     Reads  on  the 
posted  bill. 
A  Ballet  Girl  comes  in  from  the  right. 
The  Officer.  Is  Miss  Victoria  gone  ? 
The  Ballet  Girl.  No,  she  has  not  gone  yet. 
The  Officer.  Then  I  shall  wait.     She  will  be  coming 
soon,  don't  you  think  ? 

The  Ballet  Girl.  Oh,  yes,  I  am  sure. 

The  Officer,  Don't  go  away  now,  for  I  have  sent  word 

to  the  locksmith,  so  you  will  soon  see  what  is  behind  that  door. 

The  Ballet  Girl.  Oh,  it  will  be  awfully  interesting  to 

see  that  door  opened.     That  door,  there,  and  the  Growing 

Castle — have  you  heard  of  the  Growing  Castle  ? 

The  Officer.  Have  I  ? —    I  have  been  a  prisoner  in  it. 


THEDREAMPLAY  43 

The  Ballet  Girl.  No,  was  that  you  ?  But  why  do  they 
keep  such  a  lot  of  horses  there  ? 

The  Officer.  Because  it  is  a  stable  castle,  don't  you  know. 
The  Ballet  Girl.  [JVith  confusion]  How  stupid  of  me 
not  to  guess  that! 

A  IVIale  Chorus  Singer  enters  from  the  right. 
The  Officer.  Has  Miss  Victoria  gone  yet  ? 
The  Chorus  Singer.  [Earnestly]  No,  she  has  not.     She 
never  goes  away. 

The  Officer.  That  is  because  she  loves  me —  See  here, 
don't  go  before  the  locksmith  comes  to  open  the  door  here. 

The  Chorus  Singer.  No,  is  the  door  going  to  be  opened  ? 
Well,  that  will  be  fun! —  I  just  want  to  ask  the  Portress 
something. 

The  Prompter  enters  from  the  right. 
The  Officer.  Is  Miss  Victoria  gone  yet  ? 
The  Prompter.  Not  that  I  know  of. 

The  Officer.  Now,  didn't  I  tell  you  she  was  waiting  for 
me! —     Don't  go  away,  for  the  door  is  going  to  be  opened. 
The  Prompter.  Which  door  ? 
The  Officer.  Is  there  more  than  one  door.? 
The  Prompter.  Oh,  I  know — that  one  with  the  clover 
leaf.     Well,  then  I  have  got  to  stay —     I  am  only  going  to 
have  a  word  with  the  Portress. 

The  Ballet  Girl,  The  Chorus  Singer,  and  The 
Prompter  gather  beside  The  Billposter  in  front 
of  the  lodge  window  and  talk  by  turns  to  The  Daugh- 
ter. 
The  Glazier  enters  through  the  gate. 
The  Officer.  Are  you  the  locksmith  ? 
The  Glazier.  No,  the  locksmith  had  visitors,  and  a  gla- 
zier will  do  just  as  well. 


44  TIIEDREAMPLAY 

The  Officer.  Yes,   of  course,  of  course — but  did  you 
bring  your  diamond  along  ? 

The  Glazier.  Why,  certainly! —    A  glazier  without  his 
diamond,  what  would  that  be  ? 

The  Officer.  Nothing  at  all ! —    Let  us  get  to  work  then. 

[Claps  his  hands  together. 
All  gather  in  a  ring  around  the  door. 
Male  members  of  the  chorus  dressed  as  Master  Singers 
and  Ballet  Girls  in  costumes  from  the  opera  "  A'ida" 
enter  from  the  right  and  join  the  rest. 
The  Officer.  Locksmith — or  glazier — do  your  duty! 

The  Glazier  goes  up  to  the  door  ivith  the  diamond  in 
his  hand. 
The  Officer.  A  moment  like  this  will  not  occur  twice  in 
a  man's  life.     For  this  reason,  my  friends,  I  ask  you — please 

consider  carefully 

A  Policeman.  [Enters]  In  the  name  of  the  law,  I  forbid 
the  opening  of  that  door! 

The  Officer.  Oh,  Lord!  What  a  fuss  there  is  as  soon  as 
anybody  wants  to  do  anything  new  or  great.  But  we  will  take 
the  matter  into  court — let  us  go  to  the  Lawyer.  Then  we  shall 
see  whether  the  laws  still  exist  or  not —  Come  along  to  the 
Lawyer. 

Without  loxoering  of  the  curtain,  the  stage  changes  to  a  lawyer's 
office,  and  in  this  manner.  The  gate  remains,  but  as  a 
wicket  in  the  railing  running  clear  across  the  stage.  The 
gatekeeper's  lodge  turns  into  the  private  enclosure  of  the 
Lawyer,  and  it  is  now  entirely  open  to  the  front.  The  lin- 
den, leafless,  becomes  a  hat  tree.  The  billboard  is  covered 
with  legal  notices  and  court  decisions.  The  door  with  the 
four-leaved  clover  hole  forms  part  of  a  document  chest. 
The  Lawyer,  in  evening  dress  and  white  necktie,  is 
found  sitting  to  the  left,  inside  the  gate,  and  in  front 


THE   DREAM    PLAY  45 

of  him  stands  a  desk  covered  with  papers.     His  ap- 
pearance indicates  enormous  sufferings.     His  face  is 
chalk-white  and  full  of  wrinkles,  and  its  shadows  have 
a  purple  effect.     He  is  ugly,  and  his  features  seem  to 
reflect  all  the  crimes  and  vices  with  which  he  has  been 
forced  by  his  profession  to  come  into  contact. 
Of  his  two  clerks,  one  has  lost  an  arm,  the  other  an  eye. 
The  people  gathered  to  witness  "the  opening  of  the  door" 
remain  as  before,  but  they  appear  now  to  be  waiting 
for  an  audience  tvith  the  Laicyer.     Judging  by  their 
attitudes,  one  would  think  they  had  been  standing  there 
forever. 
The  Daughter,  still  ivearing  the  shawl,  and  The 
Officer  are  near  the  footlights. 
The  Lawyer.  [Goes  over  to  The  Daughter]   Tell  me, 
sister,  can  I  have  that  shawl  ?     I  shall  keep  it  here  until  I  have 
a  fire  in  my  grate,  and  then  I  shall  burn  it  with  all  its  miseries 
and  sorrows. 

The  Daughter.  Not  yet,  brother.  I  want  it  to  hold  all 
it  possibly  can,  and  I  want  it  above  all  to  take  up  your  agonies 
— all  the  confidences  you  have  received  about  crime,  vice,  rob- 
bery, slander,  abuse 

The  Lawyer.  My  dear  girl,  for  such  a  purpose  your  shawl 
would  prove  totally  insufficient.  Look  at  these  walls.  Does 
it  not  look  as  if  the  wall-paper  itself  had  been  soiled  by  every 
conceivable  sin  ?  Look  at  these  documents  into  which  I  write 
tales  of  wrong.  Look  at  myself —  No  smiling  man  ever 
comes  here;  nothing  is  to  be  seen  here  but  angry  glances, 
snarling  lips,  clenched  fists —  And  everybody  pours  his  anger, 
his  envy,  his  suspicions,  upon  me.  Look — my  hands  are 
black,  and  no  washing  will  clean  them.  See  how  they  are 
chapped  and  bleeding —  I  can  never  wear  my  clothes  more 
than  a  few  days  because  they  smell  of  other  people's  crimes — 


46  THEDREAMPLAY 

At  times  I  have  the  place  fumigated  with  sulphur,  but  it  does 
not  help.  I  sleep  near  by,  and  I  dream  of  nothing  but  crimes — 
Just  now  I  have  a  murder  case  in  court — oh,  I  can  stand  that, 
but  do  you  know  what  is  worse  than  anything  else  ? —  That 
is  to  separate  married  people!  Then  it  is  as  if  something 
cried  way  down  in  the  earth  and  up  there  in  the  sky — as  if  it 
cried  treason  against  the  primal  force,  against  the  source  of  all 
good,  against  love —  And  do  you  know,  when  reams  of  paper 
have  been  filled  with  mutual  accusations,  and  at  last  a  sympa- 
thetic person  takes  one  of  the  two  apart  and  asks,  with  a  pinch 
of  the  ear  or  a  smile,  the  simple  question :  what  have  you  really 
got  against  your  husband  ? — or  your  wife  ? — then  he,  or  she, 
stands  perplexed  and  cannot  give  the  cause.  Once — well,  I 
think  a  lettuce  salad  was  the  principal  issue;  another  time  it 
was  just  a  word — mostly  it  is  nothing  at  all.  But  the  tortures, 
the  sufferings — these  I  have  to  bear —  See  how  I  look!  Do 
you  think  I  could  ever  win  a  woman's  love  with  this  counte- 
nance so  like  a  criminal's  "i  Do  you  think  anybody  dares  to  be 
friendly  with  me,  who  has  to  collect  all  the  debts,  all  the  money 
obligations,  of  the  whole  city  .^ —     It  is  a  misery  to  be  man! 

The  Daughter.  Men  are  to  be  pitied! 

The  Law'yer.  They  are.  And  what  people  are  living  on 
puzzles  me.  They  marry  on  an  income  of  two  thousand, 
when  they  need  four  thousand.  They  borrow,  of  course — 
everybody  borrows.  In  some  sort  of  happy-go-lucky  fashion, 
by  the  skin  of  their  teeth,  they  manage  to  pull  through — and 
thus  it  continues  to  the  end,  when  the  estate  is  found  to  be 
bankrupt.     Who  pays  for  it  at  last  no  one  can  tell. 

The  Daughter.  Perhaps  He  who  feeds  the  birds. 

The  Lawyer.  Perhaps.  But  if  He  who  feeds  the  birds 
would  only  pay  a  visit  to  this  earth  of  His  and  see  for  Himself 
how  the  poor  human  creatures  fare — then  His  heart  would 
surely  fill  with  compassion. 


THEDREAMPLAY  47 

The  Daughter.  Men  are  to  be  pitied! 
The  Lawyer.  Yes,  that  is  the  truth! —    [To  The  Offi- 
cer] What  do  you  want  ? 

The  Officer.  I  just  wanted  to  ask  if  Miss  Victoria  has 
gone  yet. 

The  Lawyer.  No,  she  has  not;  you  can  be  sure  of  it — 
Why  are  you  poking  at  my  chest  over  there  ? 

The  Officer.  I  thought  the  door  of  it  looked  exactly 

The  Lawyer.  Not  at  all!     Not  at  all! 

All  the  church  bells  begin  to  ring. 
The  Officer.  Is  there  going  to  be  a  funeral  ? 
The  Lawyer.  No,  it  is  graduation  day — a  number  of  de- 
grees will  be  conferred,  and  I  am  going  to  be  made  a  Doctor 
of  Laws.     Perhaps  you  would  also  like  to  be  graduated  and 
receive  a  laurel  wreath  ? 

The  Officer.  Yes,  why  not.  That  would  be  a  diversion, 
at  least. 

The  Lawy'er.  Perhaps  then  we  may  begin  upon  this  sol- 
emn function  at  once —  But  you  had  better  go  home  and 
change  your  clothes. 

[The  Officer  goes  out. 
The  stage  is  darkened  and  the  following  changes  are  made.    The 
railing  stays,  but  it  encloses  now  the  chancel  of  a  church. 
The  billboard  displays  hymn  numbers.     The  linden  hat 
tree  becomes  a  candelabrum.     The  Laivyer^s  desk  is  turned 
into  the  desk  of  the  presiding  functionary,  and  the  door 
with  the  clover  leaf  leads  to  the  vestry. 
The  chorus  of  Master  Singers  become  heralds  with  staffs,  and 
the  Ballet  Girls  carry  laurel  wreaths.     The  rest  of  the  peo- 
ple act  as  spectators. 
The  background  is  raised,  and  the  new  one  thus  discovered  rep- 
resents a  large  church  organ,  with  the  keyboards  below  and 
the  organist's  mirror  above. 


48  THEDREAMPLAY 

Music  is  heard.     At  the  sides  stand,  figures  symbolising  the 
four  academic  faculties:  Philosophy,  Theology,  Medicine, 
and  Jurisprudence. 
At  first  the  stage  is  empty  for  a  few  moments. 
Heralds  enter  from  the  right. 
Ballet  GiRhs  follow  with  laurel  wreaths  carried  high 

before  them. 
Three  Graduates  appear  one  after  another  from  the 
left,  receive  their  wreaths  from  the  Ballet  Girls,  and 
go  out  to  the  right. 
The  Lawyer  steps  forward  to  get  his  wreath. 
The  Ballet  Girls  turn  away  from  him  and  refuse  to 
place  the  wreath  on  his  head.     Then  they  withdraw 
from  the  stage. 
The  Lawyer,  shocked,  leans  against  a  column.     All 
the  others  withdraw  gradually  until  only  The  Lawyer 
remains  on  the  stage. 
The  Daughter.  [Enters,  her  head  and  shoulders  covered 
by  a  lohite  veil  ]  Do  you  see,  I  have  washed  the  shawl !     But 
why  are  you  standing  there  ?     Did  you  get  your  wreath  ? 
The  Lawier.  No,  I  was  not  held  worthy. 
The  Daughter.  Why  ?     Because  you  have  defended  the 
poor,  put  in  a  good  word  for  the  wrong-doing,  made  the  bur- 
den easier  for  the  guilty,  obtained  a  respite  for  the  condemned  ? 
Woe  upon  men :  they  are  not  angels — but  they  are  to  be  pitied ! 
The  Lawyer.  Say  nothing  evil  of  men — for  after  all  it  is 
my  task  to  voice  their  side. 

The  Daughter.  [Leaning  against  the  organ^  Why  do  they 
strike  their  friends  in  the  face  ? 

The  Lawyer.  They  know  no  better. 
The  Daughter.  Let  us  enlighten  them.     Will  you  try? 
Together  with  me  ? 


THEDREAMPLAY  49 

The  Lawyer.  They  do  not  accept  enlightenment —  Oh, 
that  our  plaint  might  reach  the  gods  of  heaven ! 

The  Daughter.  It  shall  reach  the  throne —  [Turns  tow- 
ard the  o7-ga7i]  Do  you  know  what  I  see  in  this  mirror  ? — 
The  world  turned  the  right  way! —  Yes  indeed,  for  naturally 
we  see  it  upside  down. 

The  Lawyer.  How  did  it  come  to  be  turned  the  wrong 
way? 

The  Daughter.  "When  the  copy  was  taken 

The  Lawyer.  You  have  said  it!  The  copy —  I  have 
always  had  the  feeling  that  it  was  a  spoiled  copy.  And  when 
I  began  to  recall  the  original  images,  I  grew  dissatisfied  with 
everything.  But  men  called  it  soreheadedness,  looking  at  the 
world  through  the  devil's  eyes,  and  other  such  things. 

The  Daughter.  It  is  certainly  a  crazy  world!  Look  at 
the  four  faculties  here.  The  government,  to  which  has  fallen 
the  task  of  preserving  society,  supports  all  four  of  them.  The- 
ology, the  science  of  God,  is  constantly  attacked  and  ridi- 
culed by  philosophy,  which  declares  itself  to  be  the  sum  of 
all  wisdom.  And  medicine  is  always  challenging  philosophy, 
while  refusing  entirely  to  count  theology  a  science  and  even 
insisting  on  calling  it  a  mere  superstition.  And  they  belong 
to  a  common  Academic  Council,  which  has  been  set  to  teach 
the  young  respect — for  the  university.  It  is  a  bedlam.  And 
woe  unto  him  who  first  recovers  his  reason! 

The  Lawyer.  Those  who  find  it  out  first  are  the  theolo- 
gians. As  a  preparatory  study,  they  take  philosophy,  which 
teaches  them  that  theolosfv  is  nonsense.  Later  thev  learn 
from  theology  that  philosophy  is  nonsense.  Madmen,  I  should 
say! 

The  Daughter.  And  then  there  is  jurisprudence  which 
serves  all  but  the  servants. 

The  Lawyer.  Justice,  which,  when  it  wants  to  do  right, 


50  THEDREAMPLAY 

becomes  the  undoing  of  men.     Equity,  which  so  often  turns 
into  iniquity! 

The  Daughter.  What  a  mess  you  have  made  of  it,  you 
man-children.  Children,  indeed! —  Come  here,  and  I  will 
give  you  a  wreath — one  that  is  more  becoming  to  you.  [Puts 
a  crown  of  thorns  on  his  head]  And  now  I  will  play  for  you. 

She  sits  down  at  the  keyboards,  bid  instead  of  organ- 
notes  human  voices  are  heard. 
Voices  of  Children,  O  Lord  everlasting! 

[Last  note  sustained. 
Voices  of  Women.  Have  mercy  upon  us! 

[Last  note  sustained. 
Voices  of  Men.  [Tejiors]  Save  us  for  Thy  mercy's  sake! 

[La.'it  note  sustained. 
Voices  of  Men.  [Basses]  Spare  Thy  children,  O  Lord, 
and  deliver  us  from  Thy  wrath! 

All.  Have  mercy  upon  us !     Hear  us!     Have  pity  upon  the 
mortals! —     O  Lord  eternal,  why  art  Thou  afar? —     Out  of 
the  depths  we  call  unto  Thee:  Make  not  the  burden  of  Thy 
children  too  heavy!     Hear  us!     Hear  us! 
The  stage  turns  dark.     The  Daughter  rises  and  draws  close 
to  The  Lawyer.     By  a  change  of  light,  the  organ  becomes 
FingaVs  Cave.     The  ground-swell  of  the  ocean,  which 
can  be  seen  rising  and  falling  between  the  columns  of  basalt, 
produces  a  deep  harmony  that  blends  the  music  of  wiiids 
and  waves. 
The  Lawyer.  Where  are  we,  sister  ? 
The  Daughter.  What  do  you  hear  ? 

The  Lawyer.  I  hear  drops  falling ■ 

The  Daughter.  Those  are  the  tears  that  men  are  weep- 
ing—    What  more  do  you  hear  ? 

The  Lawyer.  There  is  sighing — and  whining — and  wail- 
ing  


THEDREAMPLAY  51 

The  Daughter.  Hither  the  phiint  of  the  mortals  has 
reached — and  no  farther.  But  why  this  never-ending  wail- 
ing ?     Is  there  then  nothing  in  hfe  to  rejoice  at  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Yes,  what  is  most  sweet,  and  what  is  also 
most  bitter — love — wife  and  home — the  highest  and  the  lowest! 

The  Daughter.  May  I  try  it  ? 

The  Lawyer.  With  me  ? 

The  Daughter.  With  you —  You  know  the  rocks,  the 
stumbling-stones.     Let  us  avoid  them. 

The  Lawyer.  I  am  so  poor. 

The  Daughter.  What  does  that  matter  if  we  only  love 
each  other  ?     And  a  little  beauty  costs  nothing. 

The  Lawyer.  I  have  dislikes  which  may  prove  your  likes. 

The  Daughter.  They  can  be  adjusted. 

The  Lawyer.  And  if  we  tire  of  it? 

The  Daughter.  Then  come  the  children  and  bring  with 
them  a  diversion  that  remains  for  ever  new. 

The  Lawyer.  You,  you  will  take  me,  poor  and  ugly, 
scorned  and  rejected  ? 

The  Daughter.  Yes — let  us  unite  our  destinies. 

The  Lawyer.  So  be  it  then! 

Curtain, 


An  extremely  plain  room  inside  The  Lawyer's  office.  To  the 
ri(/ht,  a  big  double  bed  covered  by  a  canopy  and  curtained  in. 
Next  to  it,  a  window.  To  the  left,  an  iron  heater  with  cook- 
ing utensils  on  top  of  it.  Christine  is  pasting  paper 
strips  along  the  cracks  of  the  double  icindoivs.  In  the  back- 
ground, an  open  door  to  the  office.  Through  the  door  are 
risible  a  number  of  poor  clients  waiting  for  admission. 
Christine.  I  paste,  T  paste. 

The  Daughter.  [Pale  and  emaciated,  sits  by  the  stove]  You 
shut  out  all  the  air.     I  choke! 

Christine.  Now  there  is  only  one  little  crack  left. 
The  Daughter.  Air,  air — I  cannot  breathe! 
Christine.  I  paste,  I  paste. 

The  Lawyer.  That's  right,  Christine!     Heat  is  expensive. 
The  Daughter.  Oh,  it  feels  as  if  my  lips  were  being  glued 
together. 

The  Lawyer.  [Standing  in  the  doorway,  with  a  paper  in 
his  hand]  Is  the  child  asleep  ? 
The  Daughter.  Yes,  at  last. 

The  Lawyer.  [Gently]  All   this   crying  scares   away   my 
clients. 

The  Daughter.  [Pleasantly]  What  can  be  done  about  it? 
The  Lawyer.  Nothing. 

The  Daughter.  We  shall  have  to  get  a  larger  place. 
The  Lawyer.  We  have  no  money  for  it. 
The  Daughter.  May  I  open  the  window^this  bad  air  is 
suffocating. 

The  Lawyer.  Then  the  heat  escapes,  and  we  shall  be 
cold. 

52 


THE   DREAM   PLAY  53 

The  Daughter.  It  is  horrible! —  May  we  clean  up  out 
there  ? 

The  Lawyer.  You  have  not  the  strength  to  do  any  clean- 
ing, nor  have  I,  and  Christine  must  paste.  She  must  put 
strips  through  the  whole  house,  on  every  crack,  in  the  ceiling, 
in  the  floor,  in  the  walls. 

The  Daughter,  Poverty  I  was  prepared  for,  but  not  for 
dirt. 

The  Lawyer.  Poverty  is  always  dirty,  relatively  speaking. 

The  Daughter.  This  is  worse  than  I  dreamed! 

The  Lawyer.  We  are  not  the  worst  off  by  far.  There  is 
still  food  in  the  pot. 

The  Daughter.  But  what  sort  of  food  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Cabbage  is  cheap,  nourishing,  and  good  to 
eat. 

The  Daughter.  For  those  who  like  cabbage — to  me  it  is 
repulsive. 

The  Lawyer.  Why  didn't  you  say  so  ? 

The  Daughter.  Because  I  loved  you,  I  wanted  to  sacri- 
fice my  own  taste. 

The  Lawyer.  Then  I  must  sacrifice  my  taste  for  cabbage 
to  you — for  sacrifices  must  be  mutual. 

The  Daughter.  What  are  we  to  eat,  then?  Fish?  But 
you  hate  fish  ? 

The  Lawyer.  And  it  is  expensive. 

The  Daughter.  This  is  worse  than  I  thought  it! 

The  Lawyer.  [Kindly]  Yes,  you  see  how  hard  it  is — 
And  the  child  that  was  to  become  a  link  and  a  blessing — it 
becomes  our  ruin. 

The  Daughter.  Dearest,  I  die  in  this  air,  in  this  room, 
with  its  backyard  view,  with  its  baby  cries  and  endless  hours 
of  sleeplessness,  with  those  people  out  there,  and  their  whin- 
ings,  and  bickerings,  and  incriminations —     I  shall  die  here! 


54  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Lawyer.  My  poor  little  flower,  that  has  no  light  and 
no  air 

The  Daughter.  And  you  say  that  people  exist  who  are 
still  worse  off  ? 

The  Lawyer.  I  belong  with  the  envied  ones  in  this  lo- 
cality. 

The  Daughter.  Everj^thing  else  might  be  borne  if  I  could 
only  have  some  beauty  in  my  home. 

The  Lawyer.  I  know  you  are  thinking  of  flowers — and 
especially  of  heliotropes — but  a  plant  costs  half  a  dollar,  which 
will  buy  us  six  quarts  of  milk  or  a  peck  of  potatoes. 

The  Daughter.  I  could  gladly  get  along  without  food  if 
I  could  only  have  some  flowers. 

The  Lawyer.  There  is  a  kind  of  beauty  that  costs  nothing 
— but  the  absence  of  it  in  the  home  is  worse  than  any  other 
torture  to  a  man  with  a  sense  for  the  beautiful. 

The  Daughter.  What  is  it  ? 

The  Lawyer.  If  I  tell,  you  will  get  angry. 

The  Daughter.  We  have  agreed  not  to  get  angry. 

The  Lawyer.  We  have  agreed —  Everything  can  be  over- 
come, Agnes,  except  the  short,  sharp  accents —  Do  you  know 
them?     Not  yet! 

The  Daughter.  They  will  never  be  heard  between  us. 

The  Lawi'er.  Not  as  far  as  it  lies  on  me! 

The  Daughter.  Tell  me  now. 

The  Lawter.  Well — when  I  come  into  a  room,  I  look 
first  of  all  at  the  curtains — [Goesoi-cr  to  the  icindow  and  straight- 
ens out  the  curtains]  If  they  hang  like  ropes  or  rags,  then  I 
leave  soon.  And  next  I  take  a  glance  at  the  chairs — if  they 
stand  straight  along  the  wall,  then  I  stay.  [Puts  a  chair  back 
against  the  wall]  Finally  I  look  at  the  candles  in  their  sticks — 
if  they  point  this  way  and  that,  then  the  whole  house  is  askew, 


THE   DREAM   PLAY  55 

[Straightens  up  a  candle  on  the  ched  of  drawers]  This  is  the 
kind  of  beauty,  dear  heart,  that  costs  nothin<^. 

The  Daughter.  \}Vith  bent  head]  Beware  of  the  short  ac- 
cents. Axel! 

The  Lawyer.  They  were  not  short. 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  they  were. 

The  Lawyer.  Well,  I'll  be 

The  Daughter.  What  kind  of  language  is  that? 

The  Lawyer.  Pardon  me,  Agnes !  But  I  have  suffered  as 
much  from  your  lack  of  orderliness  as  you  have  suffered  from 
dirt.  And  I  have  not  dared  to  set  things  right  myself,  for 
when  I  do  so,  you  get  as  angry  as  if  I  were  reproaching  you — 
ugh!     Hadn't  we  better  quit  now? 

The  Daughter.  It  is  very  difficult  to  be  married — it  is 
more  difficult  than  anything  else.  One  has  to  be  an  angel,  I 
think! 

The  Lawy'er.  I  think  so,  too. 

The  Daughter.  I  fear  I  shall  begin  to  hate  you  after  this! 

The  Lawyer.  Woe  to  us  then! —  But  let  us  forestall 
hatred.  I  promise  never  again  to  speak  of  any  untidiness — 
although  it  is  torture  to  me! 

The  Daughter.  And  I  shall  eat  cabbage  though  it  means 
agony  to  me. 

The  Lawyer.  A  life  of  common  suffering,  then!  One's 
pleasure,  the  other  one's  pain! 

The  Daughter.  Men  are  to  be  pitied! 

The  Lawyer.  You  see  that  ? 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  but  for  heaven's  sake,  let  us  avoid 
the  rocks,  now  when  we  know  them  so  well. 

The  Lawyer.  Let  us  try!  Are  we  not  decent  and  intelli- 
gent persons  ?     Able  to  forbear  and  forgive  ? 

The  Daughter.  Why  not  smile  at  mere  trifles  ? 


56  THE    DREAM   PLAY 

The  Lawyer.  Wc — only  we — can  do  so.  Do  you  know, 
I  read  this  morning — by  the  bye,  wliere  is  the  newspaj^er  ? 

The  Daughter.  [Embarrassed]  Which  newspaper  ? 

The  Lawyer.  [Sharpli/]  Do  I  keep  more  than  one? 

The  Daughter.  Smile  now,  and  don't  speak  sharply — ■ 
I  used  your  paper  to  make  the  fire  with 

The  Lawyer.  [Violently]  Well,  I'll  be  damned! 

The  Daughter.  W'hy  don't  you  smile? —  I  burned  it 
because  it  ridiculed  what  is  holy  to  me. 

The  Lawyer.  Which  is  unholy  to  me!  Yah!  [Strikes 
one  clenched  fist  against  the  open  palm  of  the  other  hand]  I 
smile,  I  smile  so  that  my  wisdom  teeth  show —  Of  course,  I 
am  to  be  nice,  and  I  am  to  swallow  my  own  opinions,  and  say 
yes  to  everything,  and  cringe  and  dissemble!  [Tidies  the  cur- 
tains around  the  bed]  That's  it!  Now  I  am  going  to  fix  things 
until  you  get  angry  again —     Agnes,  this  is  simply  impossible! 

The  Daughter.  Of  course  it  is! 

The  Lawyer.  And  yet  we  must  endure — not  for  the  sake 
of  our  promises,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  child ! 

The  Daughter.  You  are  right — for  the  sake  of  the  child. 
Oh,  oh — we  have  to  endure! 

The  Lawy'ER.  And  now  I  must  go  out  to  my  clients.  Lis- 
ten to  them — how  they  growl  with  impatience  to  tear  each 
other,  to  get  each  other  fined  and  jailed —     Lost  souls! 

The  Daughter.  Poor,  poor  people!     And  this  pasting! 

[She  drops  her  head  forward  in  dumb  despair. 

Christine.  I  paste,  I  paste. 

The  Lawyer  stands  at  the  door,  twisting  the  door- 
knob nervoushj. 

The  Daughter.  How  that  knob  squeaks!  It  is  as  if  you 
were  twisting  my  heart-strings 

The  Lawyer.  I  twist,  I  twist! 

The  Daughter.  Don't! 


THEDREAMPLAY  57 

The  Lawter.  I  twist! 

The  Daughter.  No! 

The  Lawyer.  I 

The  Officer.  [In  the  office,  on  the  other  side  of  the  door, 
takes  hold  of  the  kno})\  Will  you  permit  me  ? 

The  Lawyer.  [Lets  go  his  hold]  By  all  means.  Seeing 
that  you  have  your  degree ! 

The  Officer.  Now  all  life  belongs  to  me.  Every  road 
lies  open.  I  have  mounted  Parnassus.  The  laurel  is  won. 
Immortality,  fame,  all  is  mine! 

The  Lawyer.  And  what  are  you  going  to  live  on  ? 

The  Officer.  Live  on  ? 

The  Lawyer.  You  must  have  a  home,  clothes,  food 

The  Officer.  Oh,  that  will  come— if  you  can  only  find 
somebody  to  love  you ! 

The  Lawtter.  You  don't  sav  so ! —  You  don't —  Paste, 
Christine,  paste  until  they  cannot  breathe! 

[Goes  out  backward,  noddiyig. 

Christine.  I  paste,  I  paste — until  they  cannot  breathe. 

The  Officer.  Will  you  come  with  me  now  ? 

The  Daughter.  At  once!     But  where.' 

The  Officer.  To  Fairhaven.  There  it  is  summer;  there 
the  sun  is  shining;  there  we  find  youth,  children,  and  flowers, 
singing  and  dancing,  feasting  and  frolicking. 

The  Daughter.  Then  I  will  go  there. 

The  Officer.  Come! 

The  Lawyer.  [Enters  again]  Now  I  go  back  to  my  first 
hell — this  was  the  second  and  greater.  The  sweeter  the  hell, 
the  greater —  And  look  here,  now  she  has  been  dropping 
hair-pins  on  the  floor  again.         [He  picks  wp  some  hair-pins. 

The  Officer.  My!  but  he  has  discovered  the  pins  also. 

The  Lawyer.  Also  ? —  Look  at  this  one.  You  see  two 
prongs,  but  it  is  only  one  pin.     It  is  two,  yet  only  one.     If  I 


58  THE    DREAMPLAY 

bend  it  open,  it  is  a  single  piece.  If  I  bend  it  back,  there  are 
two,  but  they  remain  one  for  all  that.  It  means:  these  two 
are  one.  But  if  I  break — like  this! — then  they  become  two. 
[Breaks  the  pin  and  throws  the  pieces  away. 
The  Officer.  All  that  he  has  seen ! —  But  before  break- 
ing, the  prongs  must  diverge.  If  they  point  together,  then  it 
holds. 

The  Lawyer.  And  if  they  are   parallel,   then   they  will 
never  meet — and  it  neither  breaks  nor  holds. 

The  Officer.  The  hair-pin  is  the  most  perfect  of  all  created 
things.     A  straight  line  which  ecjuals  two  parallel  ones. 
The  Lawyer.  A  lock  that  shuts  when  it  is  open. 
The  Officer.  And  thus  shuts  in  a  braid  of  hair  that  opens 
up  when  the  lock  shuts. 

The  Lawyer.  It  is  like  this  door.     When  I  close  it,  then 
I  open — the  way  out — for  you,  Agnes! 

[Withdraws  and  closes  the  door  behind  him. 
The  Daughter.  Well  then  ? 
The  stage  changes.     The  bed  with  its  curtains  becomes  a  tent. 

The  stove  stays  as  it  was.  The  background  is  raised. 
To  the  right,  in  the  foreground,  are  seen  hills  stripped  of  their 
trees  by  fire,  and  red  heather  groiving  betiveen  the  blackened 
tree  stumps.  Red-painted  pig-sties  and  outhouses.  Be- 
yond these,  in  the  open,  apparatus  for  mechanical  gymnas- 
tics, where  sick  persons  are  being  treated  on  machines  re- 
sembling instruments  of  torture. 
To  the  left,  in  the  foreground,  the  quarantine  station,  consisting 

of  open  sheds,  with  ovens,  furnaces,  and  pipe  coils. 
In  the  middle  distance,  a  narrow  strait. 

The  background  shows  a  beautiful  loooded  shore.  Flags  are 
flying  on  its  piers,  where  ride  white  sailboats,  some  with 
sails  set  and  some  without.     Little  Italian  villas,  painlions. 


THEDREAMPLAY  59 

arbors,  via rhlc  stat ucs  are  fjlimpaed  th  ro ur/h  th  c foliage  along 
the  shore. 

The  Master  of  Quarantine,  made  up  like  a  blacka- 
moor, is  walking  along  the  shore. 
The  Officer.  [Meets   him    and  they  shake  hands]  Why, 
Ordstrom !  *     Have  you  landed  here  ? 
Master  of  Q.  Yes,  here  I  am. 
The  Officer.  Is  this  Fairhaven  ? 

Master  of  Q.  No,  that  is  on  the  other  side.  This  is 
Fouls  trand. 

The  Officer.  Then  we  have  lost  our  way. 

Master  of  Q.  We  ? —     Won't  you  introduce  me  ? 

The  Officer.  No,  that  wouldn't  do.  [In  a  lowered  voice] 
It  is  Indra's  own  daughter. 

Master  of  Q.  Indra's.?  And  I  was  thinking  of  Varuna 
himself —  Well,  are  you  not  surprised  to  find  me  black  in  the 
face? 

The  Officer.  I  am  past  fifty,  my  boy,  and  at  that  age 
one  has  ceased  to  be  surprised.  I  concluded  at  once  that  you 
were  bound  for  some  fancy  ball  this  afternoon. 

Master  of  Q.  Right  you  were!  And  I  hope  both  of  you 
will  come  along. 

The  Officer.  Why,  yes— for  I  must  say — the  place  does 
not  look  very  tempting.  What  kind  of  people  live  here  any- 
how? 

Master  of  Q.  Here  you  find  the  sick;  over  there,  the 
healthy. 

The  Officer.  Nothing  but  poor  folk  on  this  side,  I  sup- 
pose. 

INIaster  of  Q.  No,  my  boy,  it  is  here  you  find  the  rich. 
Look  at  that  one  on  the  rack.  He  has  stuffed  himself  with 
1  Means  literally  "wordspout." 


60  THEDREAMPLAY 

pate  de  foie  gras  and  tru£3es  and  Burgundy  until  his  feet  have 
grown  knotted. 

The  Officer.  Knotted? 

Master  of  Q.  Yes,  he  has  a  case  of  knotted  feet.  And 
that  one  who  hes  under  the  guillotine — he  has  swilled  brandy 
so  that  his  backbone  has  to  be  put  through  the  mangle. 

The  Officer.  There  is  always  something  amiss! 

Master  of  Q.  Moreover,  everybody  living  on  this  side 
has  some  kind  of  canker  to  hide.  Look  at  the  fellow  coming 
here,  for  instance. 

An  old  dandy  is  pushed  on  the  stage  in  a  wheel-chair. 
He  is  accompanied  by  a  gaunt  and  grisly  coquette  in 
the  sixties,  to  whom  The  Friend,  a  man  of  about 
forty,  is  paying  court. 

The  Oi'ficer.  It  is  the  major — our  schoolmate! 

Master  of  Q.  Don  Juan.  Can  you  see  that  he  is  still 
enamored  of  that  old  spectre  beside  him  ?  lie  does  not  notice 
that  she  has  grown  old,  or  that  she  is  ugly,  faithless,  cruel. 

The  Officer.  Why,  that  is  love!  And  I  couldn't  have 
dreamt  that  a  fickle  fellow  like  him  would  prove  capable  of 
loving  so  deeply  and  so  earnestly. 

IVIaster  of  Q.  That  is  a  mighty  decent  way  of  looking 
at  it. 

The  Officer.  I  have  been  in  love  with  Victoria  myself — ■ 
in  fact  I  am  still  waiting  for  her  in  the  passageway 

Master  of  Q.  Oh,  you  are  the  fellow  who  is  waiting  in 
the  j)assageway  ? 

The  Officer.  I  am  the  man. 

Master  of  Q.  Well,  have  you  got  that  door  opened  yet .' 

The  Officer.  No,  the  case  is  still  in  court — •  The  Bill- 
poster is  out  with  his  dipnet,  of  course,  so  that  the  taking  of 
evidence  is  always  being  put  oflF — and  in  the  meantime  the 
Glazier  has  mended  all  the  window  panes  in  the  castle,  which 


THEDREAMPLAY  61 

has  grown  half  a  story  higher —     This  has  been  an  uncom- 
monly good  year — warm  and  wet 

Master  of  Q.  But  just  the  same  you  have  had  no  heat 
comparing  with  what  I  have  here. 

The  Officer.  How  much  do  you  have  in  your  ovens  ? 

Master  of  Q.  When  we  fumigate  cholera  suspects,  we 
run  it  up  to  one  hundred  and  forty  degrees. 

The  Officer.  Is  the  cholera  going  again  ? 

Master  of  Q.  Don't  you  know  that? 

The  Officer.  Of  course,  I  know  it,  but  I  forget  so  often 
what  I  know. 

Master  of  Q.  I  wish  often  that  I  could  forget — especially 
myself.  That  is  why  I  go  in  for  masquerades  and  carnivals 
and  amateur  theatricals. 

The  Officer.  What  have  you  been  up  to  then  ? 

Master  of  Q.  If  I  told,  they  would  say  that  I  was  boast- 
ing;  and  if  I  don't  tell,  then  they  call  me  a  hypocrite. 

The  Officer.  That  is  why  you  blackened  your  face  ? 

Master  of  Q.  Exactly — making  myself  a  shade  blacker 
than  I  am. 

The  Officer.  Who  is  coming  there  ? 

Master  of  Q.  Oh,  a  poet  who  is  going  to  have  his  mud 
bath. 

The  Poet  enters  with  his  eyes  raised  toward  the  sky 
and  carrying  a  fail  of  mud  in  one  hand. 

The  Officer.  Why,  he  ought  to  be  having  light  baths  and 
air  baths. 

Master  of  Q.  No,  he  is  roaming  about  the  higher  re- 
gions so  much  that  he  gets  homesick  for  the  mud — and  wallow- 
ing in  the  mire  makes  the  skin  callous  like  that  of  a  pig. 
Then  he  cannot  feel  the  stings  of  the  wasps. 

The  Officer.  This  is  a  queer  world,  full  of  contradictions. 

The  Poet.  [Ecstatically]  Man    was    created    by    the   god 


62  THEDREAMPLAY 

Phtah  out  of  clay  on  a  potter's  wheel,  or  a  lathe — [sceptically], 
or  any  damned  old  thing!  [Ecstatically]  Out  of  clay  does  the 
sculptor  create  his  more  or  less  immortal  masterpieces — 
[sceptically],  which  mostly  are  pure  rot.  [Ecstatically]  Out  of 
clay  they  make  those  utensils  which  are  so  indispensable  in 
the  pantry  and  which  generically  are  named  pots  and  plates — 
[sceptically],  but  what  in  thunder  does  it  matter  to  me  what 
they  are  called  anyhow  ?  [Ecstatically]  Such  is  the  clay !  When 
clay  becomes  fluid,  it  is  called  mud —  C'est  mon  affaire! — 
[shouts]  Lena! 

Lena  enters  with  a  pail  in  her  hand. 

The  Poet.  Lena,  show  yourself  to  Miss  Agnes —  She 
knew  you  ten  years  ago,  when  you  were  a  young,  happy  and, 
let  us  say,  pretty  girl —  Behold  how  she  looks  now.  Five 
children,  drudgery,  baby-cries,  hunger,  ill-treatment.  See 
how  beauty  has  perished  and  joy  vanished  in  the  fulfilment  of 
duties  which  should  have  brought  that  inner  satisfaction  which 
makes  each  line  in  the  face  harmonious  and  fills  the  eye  with 
a  quiet  glow. 

Master  of  Q.  [Covering  the  poeVs  mouth  with  his  hand] 
Shut  up!     Shut  up! 

The  Poet.  That  is  what  they  all  say.  And  if  you  keep 
silent,  then  they  cry:  speak!     Oh,  restless  humanity! 

The  Daughter.  [Goes  to  Lena]  Tell  me  your  troubles. 

Lena.  No,  I  dare  not,  for  then  they  will  be  made  worse. 

The  Daughter.  Who  could  be  so  cruel  ? 

Lena.  I  dare  not  tell,  for  if  I  do,  I  shall  be  spanked. 

The  Poet.  That  is  just  what  will  happen.  But  I  will 
speak,  even  though  the  blackamoor  knock  out  all  my  teeth — 
I  will  tell  that  justice  is  not  always  done —  Agnes,  daughter 
of  the  gods,  do  you  hear  music  and  dancing  on  the  hill  over 
there  ? —  Well,  it  is  Lena's  sister  who  has  come  home  from 
the  city  where  she  went  astray — you  understand  ?     Now  they 


THEDREAMPLAY  63 

are  killing  the  fatted  calf;  but  Lena,  who  stayed  at  home,  has 
to  carry  slop  pails  and  feed  the  pigs. 

The  Daughter.  There  is  rejoicing  at  home  because  the 
stray  has  left  the  paths  of  evil,  and  not  merely  because  she  has 
come  back.     Bear  that  in  mind. 

The  Poet.  But  then  they  should  give  a  ball  and  banquet 
every  night  for  the  spotless  worker  that  never  strayed  into 
patlis  of  error —  Yet  they  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  but  when 
Lena  has  a  free  moment,  she  is  sent  to  prayer-meetings  where 
she  has  to  hear  reproaches  for  not  being  perfect.  Is  this 
justice  ? 

The  Daughter.  Your  question  is  so  difficult  to  answer 
because —     There  are  so  many  unforeseen  cases 

The  Poet.  That  much  the  Caliph,  Haroun  the  Just,  came 
to  understand.  He  was  sitting  on  his  throne,  and  from  its 
height  he  could  never  make  out  what  happened  below.  At  last 
complaints  penetrated  to  his  exalted  ears.  And  then,  one  fine 
day,  he  disguised  himself  and  descended  unobserved  among 
the  crowds  to  find  out  what  kind  of  justice  they  were  getting. 

The  Daughter.  I  hope  you  don't  take  me  for  Haroun 
the  Just! 

The  Officer.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else — ■  Here  come 
visitors. 

A  white  boat,  shaped  like  a  inking  ship,  with  a  dragon 
for  figure-head,  with  a  pale-blue  silken  sail  on  a  gilded 
yard,  and  with  a  rose-red  standard  flying  from  the  top 
of  a  gilded  mast,  glides  through  the  strait  from  the  left. 
He  and  She  are  seated  in  the  stern  with  their  arms 
around  each  other. 

The  Officer.  Behold  perfect  happiness,  bliss  without 
hmits,  young  love's  rejoicing! 

The  stage  grows  brighter. 


64  THEDREAMPLAY 

He.  [Stands  up  in  the  boat  and  sings] 

Hail,  beautiful  haven, 

Where  the  Springs  of  my  youth  were  spent, 

Where  mv  first  sweet  dreams  were  dreamt — 

To  thee  I  return, 

But  lonely  no  longer! 

Ye  hills  and  groves. 
Thou  sky  o'erhead, 
Thou  mirroring  sea. 
Give  greeting  to  her: 
My  love,  my  bride. 
My  light  and  my  life ! 

The  flags  at  the  landings  of  Fairhaven  are  dipped  in 
salute;    white  handkerchiefs  are  waited  from  veran- 
dahs and  boats,  and  the  air  is  filed  xcith  tender  chords 
from  harps  and  violins. 
The  Poet.  See  the  light  that  surrounds  them !     Hear  how 
the  air  is  ringing  with  music! —     Eros! 
The  Officer.  It  is  Victoria. 
Master  of  Q.  Well,  what  of  it  ? 

The  Officer.  It  is  his  Victoria —  My  own  is  still  mine. 
And  nobody  can  see  her —  Now  you  hoist  the  quarantine 
flag,  and  I  shall  pull  in  the  net. 

[The  Master  of  Quarantine  waves  a  yellow  flag. 
The  Officer.  [Pulling  a  rope  that  turns  the  boat  toward 
Foulstrand]  Hold  on  there! 

He  and  She  become  aware  of  the  hideous  view  and  give 
vent  to  their  horror. 
Master  of  Q.  Yes,  it  comes  hard.     But  here  every  one 
must  stop  who  hails  from  plague-stricken  places. 

The  Poet.  The  idea  of  speaking  in  such  manner,  of  act- 
ing in  such  a  way,  within  the  presence  of  two  human  beings 


THE   DREAM   PLAY  65 

united  in  love!  Touch  them  not!  Lay  not  hands  on  love! 
It  is  treason ! —  Woe  to  us !  Everything  beautiful  must  now 
be  dragged  down — dragged  into  the  mud! 

[He  and  She  step  ashore,  looking  sad  and  shamefaced. 

He.  Woe  to  us!     What  have  we  done  ? 

IVLvsTER  OF  Q.  It  is  not  necessary  to  have  done  anything 
in  order  to  encounter  life's  little  pricks. 

She.  So  short-lived  are  joy  and  happiness! 

He.  How  long  must  we  stay  here .'' 

Master  of  Q.  Forty  days  and  nights. 

She.  Then  rather  into  the  water! 

He.  To  live  here — among  blackened  hills  and  pig-sties  ? 

The  Poet.  Love  overcomes  all,  even  sulphur  fumes  and 
carbolic  acid. 

Master  of  Q.  [Starts  a  fire  in  the  stove;  blue,  sidphurous 
flames  break  forth]  Now  I  set  the  sulphur  going.  Will  you 
please  step  in  ? 

She.  Oh,  my  blue  dress  will  fade. 

Master  of  Q.  And  become  white.  So  your  roses  will 
also  turn  white  in  time. 

He.  Even  your  cheeks — in  forty  days ! 

She.  [To  The  Officer]  That  will  please  you. 

The  Officer.  No,  it  will  not! —  Of  course,  your  happi- 
ness was  the  cause  of  my  suffering,  but — it  doesn't  matter — 
for  I  am  graduated  and  have  obtained  a  position  over  there 
— heigh-ho  and  alas!  And  in  the  Fall  I  shall  be  teaching 
school — teaching  boys  the  same  lessons  I  myself  learned  dur- 
ing my  childhood  and  youth — the  same  lessons  throughout 
my  manhood  and,  finally,  in  my  old  age — the  self-same  les- 
sons! What  does  twice  two  make?  How  many  times  can 
four  be  evenly  divided  by  two  ? —  Until  I  get  a  pension  and 
can  do  nothing  at  all — just  wait  around  for  meals  and  the 
newspapei's — until  at  last  I  am  carted  to  the  crematorium 


66  THEDREAMPLAY 

and  burned  to  ashes —  Have  you  nobody  here  who  is  entitled 
to  a  pension  ?  Barring  twice  two  makes  four,  it  is  probably 
the  worst  thing  of  all — to  begin  school  all  over  again  when  one 
already  is  graduated;   to  ask  the  same  questions  until  death 

comes 

An  elderly  man  goes  by,  with  his  hands  folded  behind 
his  back. 

The  Officer.  There  is  a  pensioner  now,  waiting  for  him- 
self to  die.  I  think  he  must  be  a  captain  who  missed  the  rank 
of  major;  or  an  assistant  judge  who  was  not  made  a  chief 
justice.  Many  are  called  but  few  are  chosen —  He  is  wait- 
ing for  his  breakfast  now. 

The  Pensioner.  No,  for  the  newspaper — the  morning 
paper. 

The  Officer.  And  he  is  only  fifty-four  years  old.  He 
may  spend  twenty-five  more  years  waiting  for  meals  and 
newspapers — is  it  not  dreadful  ? 

The  Pensioner.  What  is  not  dreadful  ?  Tell  me,  tell  me! 

The  Officer.  Tell  that  who  can! —  Now  I  shall  have 
to  teach  boys  that  twice  two  makes  four.  And  how  many 
times  four  can  be  evenly  divided  by  two.  [He  clutches  his  head 
in  despair]  And  Victoria,  whom  I  loved  and  therefore  wished 
all  the  happiness  life  can  give — now  she  has  her  happiness, 
the  greatest  one  known  to  her,  and  for  this  reason  I  suffer — 
suffer,  suffer! 

She.  Do  you  think  I  can  be  happy  when  I  see  you  suffering  ? 
How  can  you  think  it  ?  Perhaps  it  will  soothe  your  pains  that 
I  am  to  be  imprisoned  here  for  forty  days  and  nights  ?  Tell 
me,  does  it  soothe  your  pains  ? 

The  Officer.  Yes  and  no.  How  can  I  enjoy  seeing  vou 
suffer?     Oh! 

She.  And  do  you  think  my  happiness  can  be  founded  on 
your  torments  ? 


THEDREAMPLAY  67 

The  Officer.  We  are  to  be  pitied — all  of  us! 
All.  [Raise  their  arms  toward  the  sky  and  utter  a  cry  of 
anguish  that  sounds  like  a  dissonant  chord]  Oh! 

The  Daughter.  Everlasting  One,   hear  them!     Life   is 
evil!    Men  are  to  be  pitied! 

All.  [As  before]  Oh! 
For  a  moment  the  stage  is  completely  darkened,  and  during  that 
moment  everybody  ivithdraivs  or  takes  up  a  new  position. 
When  the  light  is  turned  on  again,  Foulstrand  is  seen  in 
the  background,  lying  in  deep  shadow.  The  strait  is  in 
the  middle  distance  and  Fairhaven  in  the  foreground,  both 
steeped  in  light.  To  the  right,  a  comer  of  the  Casino,  where 
dancing  couples  are  visible  throxigh  the  open  windows. 
Three  servant  maids  are  standing  outside  on  top  of  an 
empty  box,  with  arms  around  each  other,  staring  at  the 
dancers  within.  On  the  verandah  of  the  Casino  stands  a 
bench,  where  "Plain"  Edith  is  sitting.  She  is  bare- 
headed, with  an  abundance  of  tousled  liair,  and  looks  sad. 
In  front  of  her  is  an  open  piano. 
To  the  left,  a  frame  house  painted  yellow.     Tivo  children  in 

light  dresses  are  playing  ball  outside. 
In  the  centre  of  the  middle  distance,  a  pier  with  white  sailboats 
tied  to  it,  and  flag  poles  with  hoisted  flags.     In  the  strait 
is  anchored  a  naval  vessel,  brig-rigged,  with  gun  ports. 
But  the  entire  landscape  is  in  winter  dress,  with  snow  on  the 
ground  and  on  the  bare  trees. 

The  Daughter  and  The  Officer  enter. 
The  Daughter.  Here  is  peace,  and  happiness,  and  leisure. 
No  more  toil;  every  day  a  holiday;   everybody  dressed  up  in 
their  best;   dancing  and  music  in  the  early  morning.  [To  the 
maids]  Why  don't  you  go  in  and  have  a  dance,  girls  ? 
The  Maids.  We? 
The  Officer.  They  are  servants,  don't  you  see! 


68 


THE   DREAM   PLAY 


The  Daughter.  Of  course! —  But  why  is  Edith  sitting 
there  instead  of  dancing  ? 

[Edith  buries  her  face  in  her  hands. 
The  Officer.  Don't  question  her!     She  has  been  sitting 
there  three  hours  without  being  asked  for  a  dance. 

[Goes  into  tlie  yellow  house  on  the  left. 
The  Daughter.  What  a  cruel  form  of  amusement! 
The  Mother.  [In  a  low-necked  dress,  enters fromthe  Casino 
and  goes  up  to  Edith]  Why  don't  you  go  in  as  I  told  you  .'* 

Edith.  Because — I  cannot  throw  myself  at  them.  That 
I  am  ugly,  I  know,  and  I  know  that  nobody  wants  to  dance 
with  me,  but  I  might  be  spared  from  being  reminded  of  it. 

Begins  to  play  on  the  piano,  the  Toccata  Con  Fuga,  Op. 
10,  by  Sebastian  Bach. 


Adagio 


i^=^^^i=; 


ft 


r 


etc. 


The  waltz  music  from  within  is  heard  faintly  at  first. 
Then  it  grows  in  strength,  as  if  to  compete  with  the 
Bach  Toccata.     Edith  prevails  over  it  and  brings  it 
to  silence.     Dancers  appear  in  the  doorway  to  hear 
her  play.     Everybody  on  the  stage  stands  still  and  lis- 
tens reverently. 
A  Naval  Officer.  [Takes    Alice,    one   of  the    dancers, 
around  the  waist  and  drags  her  toward  the  pier]  Come  quick! 
Edith  breaks  off  abruptly,  rises  and  stares  at  the  couple 
with  an  expression  of  utter  despair;  stands  as  if  turned 
to  stone. 


THEDREAMPLAY  69 

Note  the  front  ivall  of  the  yellow  house  disappears,  revealing 
three  benches  full  of  schoolboys.  Among  these  The 
Officer  is  seen,  looking  worried  and  depressed.  In  front 
of  the  boys  stands  The  Teacher,  bespectacled  and  holding 
a  piece  of  chalk  in  one  hand,  a  rattan  cane  in  the  other. 
The  Teacher.  [To  The  Officer]  Well,  my  boy,  can  you 
tell  me  what  twice  two  makes  ? 

The  Officer  remains  seated  while  he  racks  his  mind 
without  finding  an  answer. 
The  Teacher.  You  must  rise  when  I  ask  you  a  question. 
The  Officer.  [Harassed,  rises]  Two — twice — let  me  see. 
That  makes  two-two. 

The  Teacher.  I  see!     You  have  not  studied  your  lesson. 
The  Officer.  [Ashamed]  Yes,  I  have,  but — I  know  the 

answer,  but  I  cannot  tell  it 

The  Teacher.  You  want  to  wriggle  out  of  it,  of  course. 
You  know  it,  but  you  cannot  tell.     Perhaps  I  may  help  you. 

[Pidls  his  hair. 
The  Officer.  Oh,  it  is  dreadful,  it  is  dreadful! 
The  Teacher.  Yes,  it  is  dreadful  that  such  a  big  boy  lacks 

all  ambition 

The  Officer.  [Hurt]  Big  boy — yes,  I  am  big — bigger  than 
all  these  others — I  am  full-grown,  I  am  done  with  school — 
[As  if  leaking  2ip]  I  have  graduated — why  am  I  then  sitting 
here  ?     Have  I  not  received  my  doctor's  degree  ? 

The  Teacher.  Certainly,  but  you  are  to  sit  here  and 
mature,  you  know.     You  have  to  mature — isn't  that  so  ? 

The  Officer.  [Feels  his  forehead]  Yes,  that  is  right,  one 
must  mature —  Twice  two — makes  two — and  this  I  can  de- 
monstrate by  analogy,  which  is  the  highest  form  of  all  rea- 
soning. Listen! —  Once  one  makes  one;  consequently  twice 
two  must  make  two.  For  what  applies  in  one  case  must  also 
apply  in  another. 


70  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Teacher.  Your  conclusion  is  based  on  good  logic, 
but  your  answer  is  wrong. 

The  Officer.  What  is  logical  cannot  be  wrong.  Let  us 
test  it.  One  divided  by  one  gives  one,  so  that  two  divided  by 
two  must  give  two. 

The  Teacher.  Correct  according  to  analogy.  But  how 
much  does  once  three  make  ? 

The  Officer.  Three,  of  course. 

The  Teacher.  Consequently  twice  three  must  also  make 
three. 

The  Officer.  [Pondering]  No,  that  cannot  be  right — it 
cannot — or  else —  [Sits  down  dejectedly]  No,  I  am  not  mature 
yet. 

The  Teacher.  No,  indeed,  you  are  far  from  mature. 

The  Officer.  But  how  long  am  I  to  sit  here,  then  ? 

The  Teacher.  Here — how 'long?  Do  you  believe  that 
time  and  space  exist  ? — •  Suppose  that  time  does  exist,  then 
you  should  be  able  to  say  what  time  is.     What  is  time  ? 

The  Officer.  Time —  [Thinks]  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  know 
what  it  is.  Consequently  I  may  also  know  what  twice  two  is 
without  being  able  to  tell  it.  And,  teacher,  can  you  tell  what 
time  is  ? 

The  Teacher.  Of  course  I  can. 

All  the  Boys.  Tell  us  then ! 

The  Teacher.  Time — let  me  see.  [Stands  immovable  vnth 
one  finger  on  his  nose]  While  we  are  talking,  time  flies.  Con- 
sequently time  is  something  that  flies  while  we  talk. 

A  Boy.  [Rising]  Now  you  are  talking,  teacher,  and  while 
you  are  talking,  I  fly:  consequently  I  am  time.         [Runs  out. 

The  Teacher.  That  accords  completely  with  the  laws  of 
logic. 

The  Officer.  Then  the  laws  of  logic  are  silly,  for  Nils 
who  ran  away,  cannot  be  time. 


THEDREAMPLAY  71 

The  Teacher.  That  is  also  good  logic,  although  it  is  silly. 

The  Officer.  Then  logic  itself  is  silly. 

The  Teacher.  So  it  seems.  But  if  logic  is  silly,  then  all 
the  world  is  silly — and  then  the  devil  himself  wouldn't  stay 
here  to  teach  you  more  silliness.  If  anybody  treats  me  to  a 
drink,  we'll  go  and  take  a  bath. 

The  Officer.  That  is  a  posterus  priua,  or  the  world 
turned  upside  down,  for  it  is  customary  to  bathe  first  and  have 
the  drink  afterward.     Old  fogy! 

The  Teacher.  Beware  of  a  swelled  head,  doctor! 

The  Officer.  Call  me  captain,  if  you  please.  I  am  an 
oflScer,  and  I  cannot  understand  why  I  should  be  sitting  here 
to  get  scolded  like  a  schoolboy 

The  Teacher.  [With  raised  index  finger]  We  were  to 
mature! 

Master  of  Q.  [Enters]  The  quarantine  begins. 

The  Officer.  Oh,  there  you  are.  Just  think  of  it,  this 
fellow  makes  me  sit  among  the  boys  although  I  am  graduated. 

Master  of  Q.  Well,  why  don't  you  go  away  ? 

The  Officer.  Heaven  knows ! —  Go  away  ?  Why,  that 
is  no  easy  thing  to  do. 

The  Teacher.  I  guess  not — just  try! 

The  Officer.  [To  Master  of  Quarantine]  Save  me! 
Save  me  from  his  eye ! 

Master  of  Q.  Come  on.  Come  and  help  us  dance — 
We  have  to  dance  before  the  plague  breaks  out.     We  must! 

The  Officer.  Is  the  brig  leaving  ? 

Master  of  Q.  Yes,  first  of  all  the  brig  must  leave — 
Then  there  will  be  a  lot  of  tears  shed,  of  course. 

The  Officer.  Always  tears:  when  she  comes  and  when 
she  goes —     Let  us  get  out  of  here. 

They  go  out.     The  Teacher  continues  his  lesson  in 
silence. 


72  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Maids  that  were  staring  through  the  windoxc  of 
the  dance  hall  walk  sadly  down  to  the  pier.  Edith, 
who  has  been  standing  like  a  statue  at  the  piano,  fol- 
lows them. 

The  Daughter.  [To  The  Officer]  Is  there  not  one 
happy  person  to  be  found  in  this  paradise  ? 

The  Officer.  Yes,  there  is  a  newly  married  couple.  Just 
watch  them. 

The  Newly  Married  Couple  enter. 

Husband.  [To /?/^  Wife]  My  joy  has  no  limits,  and  I  could 
now  wish  to  die 

Wife.  Why  die  ? 

Husband.  Because  at  the  heart  of  happiness  grows  the 
seed  of  disaster.  Happiness  devours  itself  like  a  flame — it 
cannot  burn  for  ever,  but  must  go  out  some  time.  And  this 
presentiment  of  the  coming  end  destroys  joy  in  the  very  hour 
of  its  culmination. 

Wife.  Let  us  then  die  together — this  moment! 

Husband.  Die?  All  right!  For  I  fear  happiness — that 
cheat!  [They  go  toward  the  water. 

The  Daughter.  Life  is  evil!     Men  are  to  be  pitied! 

The  Officer.  Look  at  this  fellow.  He  is  the  most  envied 
mortal  in  this  neighbourhood. 

The  Blind  IVL^n  is  led  in. 

The  Officer.  He  is  the  owner  of  these  hundred  or  more 
Italian  villas.  He  owns  all  these  bays,  straits,  shores,  forests, 
together  with  the  fishes  in  the  water,  the  birds  in  the  air,  the 
game  in  the  woods.  These  thousand  or  more  people  are  his 
tenants.   The  sun  rises  upon  his  sea  and  sets  upon  his  land 

The  Daughter.  Well — is  he  complaining  also  ? 

The  Officer.  Yes,  and  with  right,  for  he  cannot  see. 

Master  of  Q.  He  is  blind. 

The  Daughter.  The  most  envied  of  all! 


THEDREAMPLAY  73 

The  Officer.  Now  he  has  come  to  see  the  brig  depart 
with  his  son  on  board. 

The  Blind  Man.  I  cannot  see,  but  I  hear.  I  hear  the 
anchor  bill  claw  the  clay  bottom  as  when  the  hook  is  torn  out 
of  a  fish  and  brings  up  the  heart  with  it  through,  the  neck — 
My  son,  my  only  child,  is  going  to  journey  across  the  wide 
sea  to  foreign  lands,  and  I  can  follow  him  only  in  my  thought! 
Now  I  hear  the  clanking  of  the  chain — and — there  is  some- 
thing that  snaps  and  cracks  like  clothes  drying  on  a  line — 
wet  handkerchiefs  perhaps.  And  I  hear  it  blubber  and  snivel 
as  when  people  are  weeping — maybe  the  splashing  of  the 
wavelets  among  the  seines — or  maybe  girls  along  the  shore, 
deserted  and  disconsolate —  Once  I  asked  a  child  why  the 
ocean  is  salt,  and  the  child,  which  had  a  father  on  a  long  trip 
across  the  high  seas,  said  immediately:  the  ocean  is  salt  be- 
cause the  sailors  shed  so  many  tears  into  it.  And  why  do  the 
sailors  cry  so  much  then  ? —  Because  they  are  always  going 
away,  replied  the  child;  and  that  is  why  they  are  always  dry- 
ing their  handkerchiefs  in  the  rigging —  And  why  does  man 
weep  when  he  is  sad  ?  I  asked  at  last —  Because  the  glass  in 
the  eyes  must  be  washed  now  and  then,  so  that  we  can  see 
clearly,  said  the  child. 

The  brig  has  set  sail  and  is  gliding  off.  The  girls  along 
the  shore  are  alternately  waving  their  handkerchiefs 
and  wiping  off  their  tears  xoith  them.  Then  a  signal 
is  set  on  the  foremast — a  red  hall  in  a  white  field,  mean- 
ing "yes."  In  response  to  it  Alice  waves  her  hand- 
kerchief triumphantly. 
The  Daughter.  [To  The  Officer]  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  that  flag  ? 

The  Officer.  It  means  "yes."  It  is  the  lieutenant's 
troth — red  as  the  red  blood  of  the  arteries,  set  against  the  blue 
cloth  of  the  sky. 


74  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Daughter.  And  how  does  "no"  look? 

The  Officer.  It  is  blue  as  the  spoiled  blood  in  the  veins 
— but  look,  how  jubilant  Alice  is. 

The  Daughter.  And  how  Edith  cries. 

The  Blind  Man.  Meet  and  part.  Part  and  meet.  That 
is  life.  I  met  his  mother.  And  then  she  went  away  from  me. 
He  was  left  to  me;  and  now  he  goes. 

The  Daughter.  But  he  will  come  back. 

The  Blind  IMan.  Who  is  speaking  to  me .''  I  have  heard 
that  voice  before — in  my  dreams;  in  my  youth,  when  vaca- 
tion began ;  in  the  early  years  of  my  marriage,  when  my  child 
was  born.  Every  time  life  smiled  at  me,  I  heard  that  voice, 
like  a  whisper  of  the  south  wind,  like  a  chord  of  harps  from 
above,  like  what  I  feel  the  angels'  greeting  must  be  in  the 

Holy  Night 

The  Lawyer  enters  and  goes  up  to  whisper  something 
into  The  Blind  Man's  ear. 

The  Blind  Man.  Is  that  so  ? 

The  Lawyer.  That's  the  truth.  [Goes  to  The  Daughter] 
Now  you  have  seen  most  of  it,  but  you  have  not  yet  tried  the 
worst  of  it. 

The  Daughter.  What  can  that  be  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Repetition — recurrence.  To  retrace  one's 
own  tracks ;   to  be  sent  back  to  the  task  once  finished — come ! 

The  Daughter.  Where? 

The  Lawyer.  To  your  duties. 

The  Daughter.  What  does  that  mean  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Everything  you  dread.  Everything  you  do 
not  want  but  must.  It  means  to  forego,  to  give  up,  to  do 
without,  to  lack — it  means  everything  that  is  unpleasant, 
repulsive,  painful. 

The  Daughter.  Are  there  no  pleasant  duties  ? 

The  Lawyer.  They  become  pleasant  when  they  are  done. 


THEDREAMPLAY  75 

The  Daughter.  When  they  have  ceased  to  exist —  Duty 
is  then  something  unpleasant.     What  is  pleasant  then  ? 

The  Lawyer.  What  is  pleasant  is  sin. 

The  Daughter.  Sin? 

The  Lawter.  Yes,  something  that  has  to  be  punished. 
If  I  have  had  a  pleasant  day  or  night,  then  I  suffer  infernal 
pangs  and  a  bad  conscience  the  next  day. 

The  Daughter.  How  strange! 

The  Lawyer.  I  wake  up  in  the  morning  with  a  headache; 
and  then  the  repetitions  begin,  but  so  that  everything  becomes 
perverted.  Wliat  the  night  before  was  pretty,  agreeable, 
witty,  is  presented  by  memory  in  the  morning  as  ugly,  dis- 
tasteful, stupid.  Pleasure  seems  to  decay,  and  all  joy  goes  to 
pieces.  What  men  call  success  serves  always  as  a  basis  for 
their  next  failure.  My  own  successes  have  brought  ruin  upon 
me.  For  men  view  the  fortune  of  others  with  an  instinctive 
dread.  They  regard  it  unjust  that  fate  should  favour  any  one 
man,  and  so  they  try  to  restore  balance  by  piling  rocks  on  the 
road.  To  have  talent  is  to  be  in  danger  of  one's  life,  for  then 
one  may  easily  starve  to  death! —  However,  you  will  have 
to  return  to  your  duties,  or  I  shall  bring  suit  against  you,  and 
we  shall  pass  through  every  court  up  to  the  highest — one,  two, 
three ! 

The  Daughter.  Return  ? —  To  the  iron  stove,  and  the 
cabbage  pot,  and  the  baby  clothes 

The  Lawyer.  Exactly!  We  have  a  big  wash  to-day,  for 
we  must  wash  all  the  handkerchiefs 

The  Daughter.  Oh,  must  I  do  it  all  over  again  ? 

The  Lawyer.  All  life  is  nothing  but  doing  things  over 
again.  Look  at  the  teacher  in  there —  He  received  his  doc- 
tor's degree  yesterday,  was  laurelled  and  saluted,  climbed  Par- 
nassus and  was  embraced  by  the  monarch — and  to-day  he 
starts  school  all  over  again,  asks  how  much  twice  two  makes. 


76  THEDREAMPLAY 

and  will  continue  to  do  so  until  his  death —     However,  you 
must  come  back  to  your  home! 

The  Daughter.  I  shall  rather  die! 

The  Lawyer.  Die  ? —  That  is  not  allowed.  First  of  all, 
it  is  a  disgrace — so  much  so  that  even  the  dead  body  is  sub- 
jected to  insults;  and  secondly,  one  goes  to  hell — it  is  a  mortal 
sin! 

The  Daughter.  It  is  not  easy  to  be  human! 

All.  Hear! 

The  Daughter.  I  shall  not  go  back  with  you  to  humilia- 
tion and  dirt —  I  am  longing  for  the  heights  whence  I  came 
— but  first  the  door  must  be  opened  so  that  I  may  learn  the 
secret —     It  is  my  will  that  the  door  be  opened ! 

The  Lawyer.  Then  you  must  retrace  your  own  steps, 
cover  the  road  you  have  already  travelled,  suffer  all  annoy- 
ances, repetitions,  tautologies,  recopyings,  that  a  suit  will 
bring  with  it 

The  Daughter.  May  it  come  then —  But  first  I  must 
go  into  the  solitude  and  the  wilderness  to  recover  my  own  self. 
We  shall  meet  again!     [To  The  Poet]  Follow  me. 

Cries  of  anguish  are  heard  from  a  distance.  Woe!   Woe! 
Woe! 

The  Daughter.  What  is  that  ? 

The  Lawyer.  The  lost  souls  at  Foulstrand. 

The  Daughter.  Why  do  they  wail  more  loudly  than  usual 
to-day  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Because  the  sun  is  shining  here;  because 
here  we  have  music,  dancing,  youth.  And  it  makes  them  feel 
their  own  sufferings  more  keenly. 

The  Daughter.  We  must  set  them  free. 

The  Lawyer.  Try  it!  Once  a  liberator  appeared,  and  he 
was  nailed  to  a  cross. 

The  Daughter.  By  whom  ? 


THEDREAMPLAY  77 

The  Lawyer.  By  all  the  right-minded. 

The  Daughter.  Who  are  they  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Are  you  not  acquainted  with  all  the  right- 
minded  ?     Then  you  must  learn  to  know  them. 

The  Daughter.  Were  they  the  ones  that  prevented  your 
graduation  ? 

The  Lawi'er.  Yes. 

The  Daughter.  Then  I  know  them! 

Curtain. 


On  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean.     To  the  left,  in  the  fore- 
ground, a  tvhite  wall,  and  above  it  branches  of  an  orange 
tree  with  ripe  fruit  on  them.     In  the  background,  villas 
and  a  Casino  placed  on  a  terrace.     To  the  right,  a  huge 
pile  of  coal  and  two  wheel-barrows.     In  the  background,  to 
the  right,  a  corner  of  blue  sea. 
Two  coalheavers,  naked  to  the  waist,  their  faces,  hands,  and 
bodies  blackened  by  coal  dust,  are  seated  on  the  wheel- 
barrows.    Their  expressions  show  intense  despair. 
The  Daughter  and  The  Lawyer  in  the  background. 
The  Daughter.  This  is  paradise! 
First  Coalheaver.  This  is  hell! 

Second  Coalheaver.  One  hundred  and  twenty  degrees 
in  the  shadow. 

First  Heaver.  Let's  have  a  bath. 

Second  Heaver.  The  police  won't  let  us.     No  bathing 
here. 

First  Heaver.  Couldn't  we  pick  some  fruit  off  that  tree  ? 
Second  Heaver.  Then  the  police  would  get  after  us. 
First  Heaver.  But  I  cannot  do  a  thing  in  this  heat —    I'll 

just  chuck  the  job 

Second  Heaver.  Then  the  police  will  get  you  for  sure! — 
[Pause\  And  you  wouldn't  have  anything  to  eat  anyhow. 

First  Heaver.  Nothing  to  eat  ?     We,  who  work  hardest, 
get  least  food;  and  the  rich,  who  do  nothing,  get  most.    Might 
one  not — without  disregard  of  truth — assert  that  this  is  injus- 
tice .? —     What  has  the  daughter  of  the  gods  to  say  about  it  ? 
The  Daughter.  I  can  say  nothing  at  all —    But  tell  me, 

78 


THEDREAMPLAY  79 

what  have  you  done  that  makes  you  so  black  and  your  lot  so 
hard? 

First  Heaver.  What  have  we  done  ?  We  have  been  born 
of  poor  and  perhaps  not  very  good  parents —  Maybe  we 
have  been  punished  a  couple  of  times. 

The  Daughter.  Punished .' 

First  Heaver.  Yes,  the  unpunished  hang  out  in  the  Casino 
up  there  and  dine  on  eight  courses  with  wine. 

The  Daughter.  [To  The  Lawyer]  Can  that  be  true.' 

The  Lawyer.  On  the  whole,  yes. 

The  Daughter.  You  mean  to  say  that  every  man  at  some 
time  has  deserved  to  go  to  prison  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Yes. 

The  Daughter.  You,  too  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Yes. 

The  Daughter.  Is  it  true  that  the  poor  cannot  bathe  in 
the  sea  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Yes.  Not  even  with  their  clothes  on. 
None  but  those  who  intend  to  take  their  own  lives  escape 
being  fined.  And  those  are  said  to  get  a  good  drubbing  at  the 
police  station. 

The  Daughter.  But  can  they  not  go  outside  of  the  city, 
out  into  the  country,  and  bathe  there  .'* 

The  Lawyer.  There  is  no  place  for  them — all  the  land  is 
fenced  in. 

The  Daughter.  But  I  mean  in  the  free,  open  country. 

The  Lawtter.  There  is  no  such  thing — it  all  belongs  to 
somebody. 

The  Daughter.  Even  the  sea,  the  great,  vast  sea 

The  Lawyer.  Even  that!  You  cannot  sail  the  sea  in  a 
boat  and  land  anywhere  without  having  it  put  down  in  writing 
and  charged  for.     It  is  lovely! 

The  Daughter.  This  is  not  paradise. 


80  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Lawyer.  I  should  say  not! 

The  Daughter.  Why  don't  men  do  something  to  improve 
their  lot  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Oh,  they  try,  of  course,  but  all  the  improvers 
end  in  prison  or  in  the  madhouse 

The  Daughter.  Who  puts  them  in  prison .? 

The  Lawyer.  All  the  right-minded,  all  the  respectable 


The  Daughter.  Who  sends  them  to  the  madhouse  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Their  own  despair  when  they  grasp  the 
hopelessness  of  their  efforts. 

The  Daughter.  Has  the  thought  not  occurred  to  any- 
body, that  for  secret  reasons  it  must  be  as  it  is  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Yes,  those  who  are  well  off  always  think  so. 

The  Daughter.  That  it  is  all  right  as  it  is  ? 

First  Heaver.  And  yet  we  are  the  foundations  of  society. 
If  the  coal  is  not  unloaded,  then  there  will  be  no  fire  in  the 
kitchen  stove,  in  the  parlour  grate,  or  in  the  factory  furnace; 
then  the  light  will  go  out  in  streets  and  shops  and  homes;  then 
darkness  and  cold  will  descend  upon  you — and,  therefore,  we 
have  to  sweat  as  in  hell  so  that  the  black  coals  may  be  had — 
And  what  do  you  do  for  us  in  return  ? 

The  Lawyer.  [To  The  Daughter]  Help  them! — [Pause] 
That  conditions  cannot  be  quite  the  same  for  everybody,  I 
understand,  but  why  should  they  differ  so  widely  ? 

A  Gentleman  and  A  Lady  pass  across  the  stage. 

The  Lady.  Will  you  come  and  play  a  game  with  us  ? 

The  Gentleman.  No,  I  must  take  a  walk,  so  I  can  eat 
something  for  dinner. 

First  Heaver.  So  that  he  can  eat  something  ? 

Second  Heaver.  So  that  he  can ? 

Children  enter  and  cry  with  horror  when  they  catch 
sight  of  the  grimy  workers. 

First  Heaver.  They  cry  when  they  see  us.     They  cry 


THEDREAMPLAY  81 

Second  Heaver.  Damn  it  all! —  I  guess  we'll  have  to 
pull  out  the  scaffolds  soon  and  begin  to  operate  on  this  rotten 
body 

First  Heaver.  Damn  it,  I  say,  too!  [Spits. 

The  Lawyer.  [To  The  Daughter]  Yes,  it  is  all  wrong. 
And  men  are  not  so  very  bad — but 

The  Daughter.  But ? 

The  Lawyer.  But  the  government 

The  Daughter.  [Goes  out,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands] 
This  is  not  paradise. 

Coalheavers.  No,  hell,  that's  what  it  is! 

Curtain. 


FingaVs  Cave.  Long  green  waves  are  rolling  slowly  into  the 
cave.  In  the  foreground,  a  siren  buoy  is  swaying  to  and 
fro  in  time  with  the  waves,  hut  ivithout  sounding  except 
at  the  indicated  moment.  Music  of  the  winds.  Music  of 
the  waves. 

The  Daughter  and  The  Poet. 

The  Poet,  Where  are  you  leading  me  ? 

The  Daughter.  Far  away  from  the  noise  and  lament  of 
the  man-children,  to  the  utmost  end  of  the  ocean,  to  the  cave 
that  we  name  Indra's  Ear  because  it  is  the  place  where  the 
king  of  the  heavens  is  said  to  listen  to  the  complaints  of  the 
mortals. 

The  Poet.  What?     In  this  place? 

The  Daughter.  Do  you  see  how  this  cave  is  built  like  a 
shell  ?  Yes,  you  can  see  it.  Do  you  know  that  your  ear,  too, 
is  built  in  the  form  of  a  shell  ?  You  know  it,  but  have  not 
thought  of  it.  [She  picks  up  a  shell  from  the  bcacJi]  Have  you 
not  as  a  child  held  such  a  shell  to  your  ear  and  listened — and 
heard  the  ripple  of  your  heart-blood,  the  humming  of  your 
thoughts  in  the  brain,  the  snapping  of  a  thousand  little  worn- 
out  threads  in  the  tissues  of  your  body  ?  All  that  you  hear 
in  this  small  shell.  Imagine  then  what  may  be  heard  in  this 
larger  one! 

The  Poet.  [Listening]  I  hear  nothing  but  the  whispering 
of  the  wind. 

The  Daughter.  Then  I  shall  interpret  it  for  you.  Lis- 
ten.    The  wail  of  the  winds.  [Recites  to  subdued  music: 

Born  beneath  the  clouds  of  heaven. 
Driven  we  were  by  the  lightnings  of  Indra 

82 


THEDREAMPLAY  83 

Down  to  the  sand-covered  earth. 

Straw  from  the  harvested  fields  soiled  our  feet; 

Dust  from  the  high-roads. 

Smoke  from  the  cities. 

Foul-smelling  breaths, 

Fumes  from  cellars  and  kitchens, 

All  we  endured. 

Then  to  the  open  sea  we  fled. 

Filling  our  lungs  with  air. 

Shaking  our  wings, 

And  laving  our  feet. 

Indra,  Lord  of  the  Heavens, 

Hear  us! 

Hear  our  sighing! 

Unclean  is  the  earth; 

Evil  is  life; 

Neither  good  nor  bad 

Can  men  be  deemed. 

As  they  can,  they  live. 

One  day  at  a  time. 

Sons  of  dust,  through  dust  they  journey; 

Born  out  of  dust,  to  dust  they  return. 

Given  they  were,  for  trudging. 

Feet,  not  wings  for  flying. 

Dusty  they  grow — 

Lies  the  fault  then  with  them. 

Or  with  Thee? 

The  Poet.  Thus  I  heard  it  once 


The  Daughter.  Hush!     The  winds  are  still  singing. 

[Recites  to  subdued  music: 


84  THEDREAMPLAY 

We,  winds  that  wander. 
We,  the  air's  offspring, 
Bear  with  us  men's  lament. 

Heard  us  you  have 

During  gloom-filled  Fall  nights. 

In  chimneys  and  pipes. 

In  key-holes  and  door  cracks. 

When  the  rain  wept  on  the  roof: 

Heard  us  you  have 

In  the  snowclad  pine  woods 

Midst  wintry  gloom: 

Heard  us  you  have. 

Crooning  and  moaning 

In  ropes  and  rigging 

On  the  high-heaving  sea. 

It  was  we,  the  winds. 
Offspring  of  the  air. 
Who  learned  how  to  grieve 
Within  human  breasts 
Through  which  we  passed — 
In  sick-rooms,  on  battle-fields. 
But  mostly  where  the  newborn 
Whimpered  and  wailed 
At  the  pain  of  living. 

We,  we,  the  winds, 

We  are  whining  and  whistling: 

Woe!    Woe!    Woe! 

The  Poet,  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  already 

The  Daughter.  Hush!     Now  the  waves  are  singing. 

IRecites  to  subdued  music: 


THEDREAMPLAY  85 

We,  we  waves, 
That  are  rocking  the  winds 
To  rest- 
Green  cradles,  we  waves! 

Wet  are  we,  and  salty; 
Leap  like  flames  of  fire — 
Wet  flames  are  we: 
Burning,  extinguishing; 
Cleansing,  replenishing; 
Bearing,  engendering. 

We,  we  waves. 

That  are  rocking  the  winds 

To  rest! 

The  Daughter.  False  waves  and  faithless !  Everything  on 
earth  that  is  not  burned,  is  drowned — by  the  waves.  Look 
at  this.  {Pointing  to  "pile  of  debris]  See  what  the  sea  has  taken 
and  spoiled!  Nothing  but  the  figure-heads  remain  of  the 
sunken  ships — and  the  names:  Justice,  Friendship,  Golden 
Peace,  Hope — this  is  all  that  is  left  of  Hope — of  fickle  Hope — 
Railings,  tholes,  bails!  And  lo:  the  life  buoy — which  saved 
itself  and  let  distressed  men  perish. 

The  Poet.  [Searching  in  the  pile]  Here  is  the  name-board 
of  the  ship  Justice.  That  was  the  one  which  left  Fairhaven 
with  the  Blind  Man's  son  on  board.  It  is  lost  then!  And 
with  it  are  gone  the  lover  of  Alice,  the  hopeless  love  of  Edith. 

The  Daughter.  The  Blind  Man  ?  Fairhaven .?  I  must 
have  been  dreaming  of  them.  And  the  lover  of  Alice,  "Plain  " 
Edith,  Foulstrand  and  the  Quarantine,  sulphur  and  carbolic 
acid,  the  graduation  in  the  church,  the  Lawyer's  oflSce,  the 
passageway  and  Victoria,  the  Growing  Castle  and  the  Offi- 
cer—    All  this  I  have  been  dreaming 


86  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Poet.  It  was  in  one  of  my  poems. 

The  Daughter.  You  know  then  what  poetry  is 

The  Poet.  I  know  then  what  dreaming  is —  But  what 
is  poetry  ? 

The  Daughter.  Not  reahty,  but  more  than  reality — not 
dreaming,  but  daylight  dreams 

The  Poet.  And  the  man-children  think  that  we  poets  are 
only  playing — that  we  invent  and  make  believe. 

The  Daughter.  And  fortunate  it  is,  my  friend,  for 
otherwise  the  world  would  lie  fallow  for  lack  of  ministration. 
Everybody  would  be  stretched  on  his  back,  staring  into  the 
sky.  Nobody  would  be  touching  plough  or  spade,  hammer 
or  plane. 

The  Poet.  And  you  say  this,  Indra's  daughter,  you  who 
belong  in  part  up  there 

The  Daughter.  You  do  right  in  reproaching  me.  Too 
long  have  I  stayed  down  here  taking  mud  baths  like  you— 
My  thoughts  have  lost  their  power  of  flight;  there  is  clay  on 
their  wings — mire  on  their  feet — and  I  myself — [raising  her 
arms]  I  sink,  I  sink —  Help  me,  father.  Lord  of  the  Heavens! 
[Silence]  I  can  no  longer  hear  his  answer.  The  ether  no 
longer  carries  the  sound  from  his  lips  to  my  ear's  shell — the 
silvery  thread  has  snapped —     Woe  is  me,  I  am  earthbound! 

The  Poet.  Do  you  mean  to  ascend — soon  ? 

The  Daughter.  As  soon  as  I  have  consigned  this  mortal 
shape  to  the  flames — for  even  the  waters  of  the  ocean  cannot 
cleanse  me.     Why  do  you  question  me  thus  ? 

The  Poet.  Because  I  have  a  prayer 

The  Daughter.  What  kind  of  prayer  ? 

The  Poet.  A  written  supplication  from  humanity  to  the 
ruler  of  the  universe,  formulated  by  a  dreamer. 

The  Daughter.  To  be  presented  by  whom  ? 

The  Poet.  By  Indra's  daughter. 


THE   DREAM   PLAY  87 

The  Daughter.  Can  you  repeat  what  you  have  written  ? 

The  Poet.  I  can. 

The  Daughter.  Speak  it  then. 

The  Poet.  Better  that  you  do  it. 

The  Daughter.  Where  can  I  read  it? 

The  Poet.  In  my  mind — or  here. 

[Hands  her  a  roll  of  paper. 
The  Daughter.  [Receives  the  roll,  but  reads  without  look 
ing  at  it]  Well,  by  me  it  shall  be  spoken  then: 

"  Why  must  you  be  born  in  anguish  ? 
Why,  O  man-child,  must  you  always 
Wring  your  mother's  heart  with  torture 
When  you  bring  her  joy  maternal. 
Highest  happiness  yet  known .'' 
Why  to  life  must  you  awaken. 
Why  to  light  give  natal  greeting. 
With  a  cry  of  anger  and  of  pain  ? 
Why  not  meet  it  smiling,  man-child. 
When  the  gift  of  life  is  counted 
In  itself  a  boon  unmatched .' 
Why  like  beasts  should  we  be  coming. 
We  of  race  divine  and  human  ? 
Better  garment  craves  the  spirit 
Than  one  made  of  filth  and  blood! 
Need  a  god  his  teeth  be  changing '* 

— Silence,  rash  one!  Is  it  seemly 
For  the  work  to  blame  its  maker  ? 
No  one  yet  has  solved  life's  riddle. 

"Thus  begins  the  human  journey 
O'er  a  road  of  thorns  and  thistles; 


88  THEDREAMPLAY 

If  a  beaten  path  be  offered, 

It  is  named  at  once  forbidden ; 

If  a  flower  you  covet,  straightway 

You  are  told  it  is  another's; 

If  a  field  should  bar  your  progress, 

And  you  dare  to  break  across  it, 

You  destroy  your  neighbour's  harvest; 

Others  then  your  own  will  trample, 

That  the  measure  may  be  evened! 

Every  moment  of  enjoyment 

Brings  to  some  one  else  a  sorrow. 

But  your  sorrow  gladdens  no  one. 

For  from  sorrow  naught  but  sorrow  springs. 

"  Thus  you  journey  till  you  die. 
And  your  death  brings  others'  bread." 

— Is  it  thus  that  you  approach, 
Son  of  Dust,  the  One  Most  High  ? 

The  Poet, 

Could  the  son  of  dust  discover 
Words  so  pure  and  bright  and  simple 
That  to  heaven  they  might  ascend ? 

Child  of  gods,  wilt  thou  interpret 
Mankind's  grievance  in  some  language 
That  immortals  understand  ? 

The  Daughter.  I  will. 

The  Poet.  [Pointing  to  the  buoy]  What  is  that  floating 
there  ? —     A  buoy  ? 
The  Daughter.  Yes. 


THEDREAMPLAY  89 

The  Poet.  It  looks  like  a  lung  with  a  windpipe. 

The  Daughter.  It  is  the  watchman  of  the  seas.  When 
danger  is  abroad,  it  sings. 

The  Poet.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  the  sea  were  rising  and  the 
waves  growing  larger 

The  Daughter.  Not  unlikely. 

The  Poet.  Woe!  What  do  I  see?  A  ship  bearing  down 
upon  the  reef. 

The  Daughter.  What  ship  can  that  be  ? 

The  Poet.  The  ghost  ship  of  the  seas,  I  think. 

The  Daughter.  What  ship  is  that  ? 

The  Poet.  The  Flying  Dutchman. 

The  Daughter.  Oh,  that  one.  Why  is  he  punished  so 
hard,  and  why  does  he  not  seek  harbour .' 

The  Poet.  Because  he  had  seven  faithless  wives. 

The  Daughter.  And  for  this  he  should  be  punished  ? 

The  Poet.  Yes,  all  the  right-minded  condemned  him 

The  Daughter.  Strange  world,  this ! —  How  can  he  then 
be  freed  from  his  curse  ? 

The  Poet.  Freed  ? —  Oh,  they  take  good  care  that  none 
is  set  free. 

The  Daughter.  Why? 

The  Poet.  Because —  No,  it  is  not  the  Dutchman!  It 
is  an  ordinary  ship  in  distress.  Why  does  not  the  buoy  cry 
out  now  ?  Look,  how  the  sea  is  rising — how  high  the  waves 
are — soon  we  shall  be  unable  to  get  out  of  the  cave!  Now 
the  ship's  bell  is  ringing —  Soon  we  shall  have  another  figure- 
head. Cry  out,  buoy!  Do  your  duty,  watchman!  [The  huoij 
sounds  a  four-voice  chord  of  fifths  and  sixths,  reminding  one 
of  fog  horjis]  The  crew  is  signalling  to  us — but  we  are 
doomed  ourselves. 

The  Daughter.  Do  you  not  wish  to  be  set  free  ? 


90 


THE   DREAM   PLAY 


The  Poet.  Yes,  of  course — of  course,  I  wish  it — but  not 
just  now,  and  not  by  water. 

The  Crew.  [Sings  in  quartet]  Christ  Kyrie! 


The  Poet.  Now  they  are  crying  aloud,  and  so  is  the  sea. 
but  no  one  gives  ear. 

The  Crew.  [As  before]  Christ  Kyrie! 

The  Daughter.  Who  is  coming  there  ? 

The  Poet.  Walking  on  the  waters  ?     There  is  only  one 
who  does  that — and  it  is  not  Peter,  the  Rock,  for  he  sank  like 

a  stone 

A  ivhite  light  is  seen  shining  over  the  water  at  some  dis- 
tance. 

The  Crew.  Christ  Kyrie! 

The  Daughter.  Can  this  be  He  ? 

The  Poet.  It  is  He,  the  crucified 

The  Daughter.  Why — tell  me — why  was  He  crucified? 

The  Poet.  Because  He  wanted  to  set  free 

The  Daughter.  Who  was  it — I  have  forgotten — that  cru- 
cified Him  ? 

The  Poet.  All  the  right-minded. 

The  Daughter.  W^hat  a  strange  world ! 

The  Poet.  The  sea  is  rising.     Darkness  is  closing  in  upon 

us.     The  storm  is  growing 

[The  Crew  set  up  a  wild  outcry. 

The  Poet.  The  crew  scream  with  horror  at  the  sight  of 


THEDREAMPLAY  91 

their  Saviour — and  now — they  are  leaping  overboard  for  fear 

of  the  Redeemer 

[The  Crew  utter  another  cry. 

The  Poet.  Now  they  are  crying  because  they  must  die. 

Crying  when  they  are  born,  and  crying  when  they  pass  away! 

[The  rising  waves  threaten  to  engulf  the  two  in  the  cave. 

The  Daughter.  If  I  could  only  be  sure  that  it  is  a  ship 

The  Poet.  Really — I  don't  think  it  is  a  ship —  It  is  a 
two-storied  house  with  trees  in  front  of  it — and — a  telephone 
tower — a  tower  that  reaches  up  into  the  skies —  It  is  the 
modern  Tower  of  Babel  sending  wires  to  the  upper  regions — ■ 
to  communicate  with  those  above 

The  Daughter.  Child,  the  human  thought  needs  no  wires 
to  make  a  way  for  itself — the  prayers  of  the  pious  penetrate 
the  universe.  It  cannot  be  a  Tower  of  Babel,  for  if  you  want 
to  assail  the  heavens,  you  must  do  so  with  prayer. 

The  Poet.  No,  it  is  no  house — no  telephone  tower — don't 
you  see  ? 

The  Daughter.  What  are  you  seeing  ? 

The  Poet.  I  see  an  open  space  covered  with  snow — a  drill 
ground —  The  winter  sun  is  shining  from  behind  a  church  on 
a  hill,  and  the  tower  is  casting  its  long  shadow  on  the  snow — 
Now  a  troop  of  soldiers  come  marching  across  the  grounds. 
They  march  up  along  the  tower,  up  the  spire.  Now  they  have 
reached  the  cross,  but  I  have  a  feeling  that  the  first  one  who 
steps  on  the  gilded  weathercock  at  the  top  must  die.  Now 
they  are  near  it — a  corporal  is  leading  them — ha-ha!  There 
comes  a  cloud  sweeping  across  the  open  space,  and  right  in 
front  of  the  sun,  of  course — now  everything  is  gone — the  water 
in  the  cloud  put  out  the  sun's  fire! —  The  light  of  the  sun 
created  the  shadow  picture  of  the  tower,  but  the  shadow 
picture  of  the  cloud  swallowed  the  shadow  picture  of  the 
tower 


92  THEDREAMPLAY 

While  The  Poet  is  still  speaking,  the  stage  is  changed  and 
shows  once  more  the  passageway  outside  the  opera-house. 

The  Daughter.  [To  The  Portress]  Has  the  Lord 
Chancellor  arrived  yet  ? 

The  Portress.  No. 

The  Daughter.  And  the  Deans  of  the  Faculties  ? 

The  Portress.  No. 

The  Daughter.  Call  them  at  once,  then,  for  the  door  is 
to  be  opened 

The  Portress.  Is  it  so  very  pressing  ? 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  it  is.  For  there  is  a  suspicion  that 
the  solution  of  the  world-riddle  may  be  hidden  behind  it.  Call 
the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  the  Deans  of  the  Four  Faculties  also. 

[The  Portress  blows  in  a  whistle. 

The  Daughter.  And  do  not  forget  the  Glazier  and  his 
diamond,  for  without  them  nothing  can  be  done. 

Stage  People  enter  from  the  left  as  in  the  earlier  scene. 

The  Officer.  [Enters  from  the  background,  in  Prince  Al- 
bert and  high  hat,  with  a  bunch  of  roses  in  his  hand,  looking 
radiantly  happy]  Victoria! 

The  Portress.  The  young  lady  will  be  coming  in  a 
moment. 

The  Officer.  Good!  The  carriage  is  waiting,  the  table 
is  set,  the  wine  is  on  ice —  Permit  me  to  embrace  you,  madam ! 
[Embraces  The  Portress]  Victoria! 

A  Woman's  Voice  from  Above.  [Sings]  I  am  here! 

The  Officer.  [Begins  to  walk  to  and  fro]  Good!  I  am 
waiting. 

The  Poet.  It  seems  to  me  that  all  this  has  happened  be- 
fore  

The  Daughter.  So  it  seems  to  me  also. 

The  Poet.  Perhaps  I  have  dreamt  it. 

The  Daughter.  Or  put  it  in  a  poem,  perhaps. 


THEDREAMPLAY  93 

The  Poet.  Or  put  it  in  a  poem. 

The  Daughter.  Then  you  know  what  poetry  is. 

The  Poet.  Then  I  know  what  dreaming  is. 

The  Daughter.  It  seems  to  me  that  we  have  said  all  this 
to  each  other  before,  in  some  other  place. 

The  Poet.  Then  you  may  soon  figure  out  what  reality  is. 

The  Daughter.  Or  dreaming! 

The  Poet.  Or  poetry! 

Enter  the  Lord  Chancellor  and  the  Deans  of  the 
Theological,  Philosophical,  Medical,  and 
Legal  Faculties. 

Lord  Chancellor.  It  is  about  the  opening  of  that  door, 
of  course^  What  does  the  Dean  of  the  Theological  Faculty 
think  of  it.? 

Dean  of  Theology.  I  do  not  think — I  believe — Credo 

Dean  of  Philosophy.  I  hold 

Dean  of  Medicine.  I  know 

Dean  of  Jurisprudence.  I  doubt  until  I  have  evidence 
and  witnesses. 

Lord  Chancellor.  Now  they  are  fighting  again! —  Well, 
what  does  Theology  believe  ? 

Theology.  I  believe  that  this  door  must  not  be  opened, 
because  it  hides  dangerous  truths 

Philosophy.  Truth  is  never  dangerous. 

Medicine.  What  is  truth  ? 

Jurisprudence.  What  can  be  proved  by  two  witnesses. 

Theology.  Anything  can  be  proved  by  two  false  witnesses 
— thinks  the  pettifogger. 

Philosophy.  Truth  is  wisdom,  and  wisdom,  knowledge, 
is  philosophy  itself —  Philosophy  is  the  science  of  sciences, 
the  knowledge  of  knowing,  and  all  other  sciences  are  its 
servants. 


94  THE   DREAM   PLAY 

Medicine.  Natural  science  is  the  only  true  science — and 
philosophy  is  no  science  at  all.  It  is  nothing  but  empty 
speculation. 

Theology.  Good! 

Philosophy.  [To  Theology]  Good,  you  say!  And  what 
are  you,  then?  You  are  the  arch-enemy  of  all  knowledge; 
you  are  the  very  antithesis  of  knowledge;  you  are  ignorance 
and  obscuration 

Medicine.  Good! 

Theology.  [To  Medicine]  You  cry  "good,"  you,  who 
cannot  see  beyond  the  length  of  your  own  nose  in  the  magnify- 
ing glass;  who  believes  in  nothing  but  your  own  unreliable 
senses — in  your  vision,  for  instance,  which  may  be  far-sighted, 
near-sighted,  blind,  purblind,  cross-eyed,  one-eyed,  colour- 
blind, red-blind,  green-blind 

Medicine.  Idiot! 

Theology.  Ass!  [They fight. 

Lord  Chancellor.  Peace!  One  crow  does  not  peck  out 
the  other's  eye. 

Philosophy.  If  I  had  to  choose  between  those  two,  The- 
ology and  Medicine,  I  should  choose — neither! 

Jurisprudence.  And  if  I  had  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the 
three  of  you,  I  should  find — all  guilty!  You  cannot  agree  on 
a  single  point,  and  you  never  could.  Let  us  get  back  to  the 
case  in  court.  What  is  the  opinion  of  the  Lord  Chancellor 
as  to  this  door  and  its  opening  ? 

Lord  Chancellor.  Opinion  ?  I  have  no  opinion  what- 
ever. I  am  merely  appointed  by  the  government  to  see  that 
you  don't  break  each  other's  arms  and  legs  in  the  Council^ 
while  you  are  educating  the  young!  Opinion  ?  Why,  I  take 
mighty  good  care  to  avoid  everything  of  the  kind.  Once  I 
had  one  or  two,  but  they  were  refuted  at  once.  Opinions  are 
always  refuted — by  their  opponents,  of  course —     But  per- 


THEDREAMPLAY  95 

haps  we  might  open  the  door  now,  even  with  the  risk  of  finding 
some  dangerous  truths  behind  it? 

Jurisprudence.  What  is  truth?    What  is  truth? 

Theology.  I  am  the  truth  and  the  hfe • 

Philosophy.  I  am  the  science  of  sciences ■ 

Medicine.  I  am  the  only  exact  science 

Jurisprudence.  I  doubt [They  Jight. 

The  Daughter.  Instructors  of  the  young,  take  shame! 

Jurisprudence.  Lord  Chancellor,  as  representative  of  the 
government,  as  head  of  the  corps  of  instructors,  you  must 
prosecute  this  woman's  offence.  She  has  told  all  of  you  to 
take  shame,  which  is  an  insult ;  and  she  has — in  a  sneering, 
ironical  sense — called  you  instructors  of  the  young,  which  is 
a  slanderous  speech. 

The  Daughter.  Poor  youth! 

Jurisprudence.  She  pities  the  young,  which  is  to  accuse 
us.     Lord  Chancellor,  you  must  prosecute  the  offence. 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  I  accuse  you — ^you  in  a  body — of 
sowing  doubt  and  discord  in  the  minds  of  the  young. 

Jurisprudence.  Listen  to  her — she  herself  is  making  the 
young  question  our  authority,  and  then  she  charges  us  with 
sowing  doubt.  Is  it  not  a  criminal  act,  I  ask  all  the  right- 
minded  ? 

All  Right-Minded.  Yes,  it  is  criminal. 

Jurisprudence.  All  the  right-minded  have  condemned 
you.     Leave  in  peace  with  your  lucre,  or  else 

The  Daughter.  My  lucre?    Or  else?    What  else? 

Jurisprudence.  Else  you  will  be  stoned. 

The  Poet.  Or  crucified. 

The  Daughter.  I  leave.  Follow  me,  and  you  shall  leara 
the  riddle. 

The  Poet.  Which  riddle? 

The  Daughter.  What  did  he  mean  with  "my  lucre"? 


96  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Poet.  Probably  nothing  at  all.  That  kind  of  thing 
we  call  talk.     He  was  just  talking. 

The  Daughter.  But  it  was  what  hurt  me  more  than  any- 
thing else ! 

The  Poet.  That  is  why  he  said  it,  I  sup{)ose —  Men  are 
that  way. 

All  Right-Minded.  Hooray!     The  door  is  open. 

Lord  Chancellor.  What  was  behind  the  door? 

The  Glazier.  I  can  see  nothing. 

Lord  Chancellor.  He  cannot  see  anything — of  course, 
he  cannot!  Deans  of  the  Faculties:  what  was  behind  that 
door? 

Theology.  Nothing!  That  is  the  solution  of  the  world- 
riddle.  In  the  beginning  God  created  heaven  and  the  earth 
out  of  nothing 

Philosophy.  Out  of  nothing  comes  nothing. 

Medicine.  Yes,  bosh — which  is  nothing! 

Jurisprudence.  I  doubt.  And  this  is  a  case  of  deception. 
I  appeal  to  all  the  right-minded. 

The  Daughter.  [Ta  The  Poet]  Who  are  the  right- 
minded  ? 

The  Poet.  Who  can  tell?  Frequently  all  the  right-minded 
consist  of  a  single  person.  To-day  it  is  me  and  mine;  to-mor- 
row it  is  you  and  yours.  To  that  position  you  are  appointed — • 
or  rather,  you  appoint  yourself  to  it. 

All  Right-Minded.  We  have  been  deceived. 

Lord  Chancellor.  Who  has  deceived  you  ? 

All  Right-Minded.  The  Daughter! 

Lord  Chancellor.  Will  the  Daughter  please  tell  us  what 
she  meant  by  having  this  door  opened  ? 

The  Daughter.  No,  friends.  If  I  did,  you  would  not 
believe  me. 

Medicine.  Why,  then,  there  is  nothing  there. 


THE    DREAM   PLAY  97 

The  Daughter.  You  have  said  it — but  you  have  not 
understood. 

Medicine.  It  is  bosh,  what  she  says! 

All.  Bosh! 

The  Daughter.  [To  The  Poet]  They  are  to  be  pitied. 

The  Poet.  Are  you  in  earnest  ? 

The  Daughter.  x\lways  in  earnest. 

The  Poet.  Do  you  think  the  right-minded  are  to  be  pitied 
also? 

The  Daughter.  They  most  of  all,  perhaps. 

The  Poet.  And  the  four  faculties,  too .'' 

The  Daughter.  They  also,  and  not  the  least.  Four  heads, 
four  minds,  and  one  body.     Who  made  that  monster  ? 

All.  She  has  not  answered! 

Lord  Chancellor.  Stone  her  then! 

The  Daughter.  I  have  answered. 

Lord  Chancellor.  Hear — she  answers. 

All.  Stone  her!     She  answers! 

The  Daughter.  Whether  she  answer  or  do  not  answer, 
stone  her!  Come,  prophet,  and  I  shall  tell  you  the  riddle 
— but  far  away  from  here — out  in  the  desert,  where  no  one 
can  hear  us,  no  one  see  us,  for ■ 

The  Lawyer.  [Enters  and  takes  The  Daughter  by  the 
arm]  Have  you  forgotten  your  duties  ? 

The  Daughter.  Oh,  heavens,  no!  But  I  have  higher 
duties. 

The  Lawyer.  And  your  child  ? 

The  Daughter.  My  child — what  of  it  ? 

The  Lawi'er.  Your  child  is  crying  for  you. 

The  Daughter.  My  child!     Woe,  I  am  earth-bound! 
And  this  pain  in  my  breast,  this  anguish — -what  is  it  ? 

The  Lavtyer.  Don't  you  know  ? 

The  Daughter.  No. 


98  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Lawyer.  It  is  remorse. 

The  Daughter.  Is  that  remorse  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Yes,  and  it  follows  every  neglected  duty; 
every  pleasure,  even  the  most  innocent,  if  innocent  pleasures 
exist,  which  seems  doubtful;  and  every  suffering  inflicted  upon 
one's  fellow-beings. 

The  Daughter.  And  there  is  no  remedy  ? 

The  Lawyer.  Yes,  but  only  one.  It  consists  in  doing 
your  duty  at  once 

The  Daughter.  You  look  like  a  demon  when  you  speak 
that  word  duty —  And  when,  as  in  my  case,  there  are  two 
duties  to  be  met? 

The  Lawyer.  Meet  one  first,  and  then  the  other. 

The  Daughter.  The  highest  first — therefore,  you  look 
after  my  child,  and  I  shall  do  my  duty^^ 

The  Lawyer.  Your  child  suffers  because  it  misses  you — 
can  you  bear  to  know  that  a  human  being  is  suffering  for  your 
sake? 

The  Daughter.  Now  strife  has  entered  my  soul — it  is 
rent  in  two,  and  the  halves  are  being  pulled  in  opposite  direc- 
tions ! 

The  Lawyer.  Such,  you  know,  are  life's  little  discords. 

The  Daughter.  Oh,  how  it  is  pulling! 

The  Poet.  If  you  could  only  know  how  I  have  spread 
sorrow  and  ruin  around  me  by  the  exercise  of  my  calling — • 
and  note  that  I  say  calling^  which  carries  with  it  the  highest 
duty  of  all — then  you  would  not  even  touch  my  hand. 

The  Daughter.  What  do  you  mean? 

The  Poet.  I  had  a  father  who  put  his  whole  hope  on  me 
as  his  only  son,  destined  to  continue  his  enterprise.  I  ran 
away  from  the  business  college.  My  father  grieved  himself 
to  death.  My  mother  wanted  me  to  be  religious,  and  I  could 
not  do  what  she  wanted — and  she  disowned  me.     I  had  a 


THEDREAMPLAY  99 

friend  who  assisted  me  through  trying  days  of  need — and  that 
friend  acted  as  a  tyrant  against  those  on  whose  behalf  I  was 
speaking  and  writing.  And  I  had  to  strike  down  my  friend 
and  benefactor  in  order  to  save  my  soul.  Since  then  I  have 
had  no  peace.  Men  call  me  devoid  of  honour,  infamous — and 
it  does  not  help  that  my  conscience  says,  "you  have  done 
right,"  for  in  the  next  moment  it  is  saying,  "you  have  done 
wrong."     Such  is  life. 

The  Daughter.  Come  with  me  into  the  desert. 
The  Lawyer.  Your  child! 

The  Daughter.  [Indicating  all  those  present]  Here  are 
my  children.  By  themselves  they  are  good,  but  if  they  only 
come  together,  then  they  quarrel  and  turn  into  demons — 
Farewell ! 

Outside  the  castle.  The  same  scenery  as  in  the  first  scene  of  the 
first  act.  But  now  the  ground  in  front  of  the  castle  wall  is 
covered  with  flowers — blue  monk's-hood  or  aconite.  On  the 
roof  of  the  castle,  at  the  very  top  of  its  lantern,  there  is  a 
chrysanthemum  hud  ready  to  open.  The  castle  windows 
are  illuminated  with  candles. 

The  Daughter  and  The  Poet. 
The  Daughter.  The  hour  is  not  distant  when,  with  the 
help  of  the  flames,  I  shall  once  more  ascend  to  the  ether.    It  is 
what  you  call  to  die,  and  what  you  approach  in  fear. 
The  Poet.  Fear  of  the  unknown. 
The  Daughter.  Which  is  known  to  you. 
The  Poet.  Who  knows  it  ? 

The  Daughter.  All!      Why   do   you    not   beheve   your 
prophets  ? 

The  Poet.  Prophets  have  always  been  disbelieved.     Why 
is  that  so?     And   "if  God  has  spoken,  why  will  men  not 
believe  then  ?  "     His  convincing  power  ought  to  be  irresistible 
The  Daughter.  Have  you  always  doubted  ? 


100  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Poet.  No.  I  have  had  certainty  many  times.  But 
after  a  while  it  passed  away,  like  a  dream  when  you  wake  up. 

The  Daughter.  It  is  not  easy  to  be  human! 

The  Poet.  You  see  and  admit  '\t? 

The  Daughter.  I  do. 

The  Poet.  Listen!  Was  it  not  Indra  that  once  sent  his 
son  down  here  to  receive  the  complaints  of  mankind  ? 

The  Daughter.  Thus  it  happened — and  how  was  he 
received  ? 

The  Poet.  How  did  he  fill  his  mission  ? — to  answer  with 
another  question. 

The  Daughter.  And  if  I  may  reply  with  still  another — 
was  not  man's  position  bettered  by  his  visit  to  the  earth.? 
Answer  truly! 

The  Poet.  Bettered.? —  Yes,  a  little.  A  very  little — 
But  instead  of  asking  questions — will  you  not  tell  the  riddle  ? 

The  Daughter.  Yes.  But  to  what  use?  You  will  not 
believe  me. 

The  Poet.  In  you  I  shall  believe,  for  I  know  who  you  are. 

The  Daughter.  Then  I  shall  tell!  In  the  morning  of 
the  ages,  before  the  sun  was  shining,  Brahma,  the  divine 
primal  force,  let  himself  be  persuaded  by  Maya,  the  world- 
mother,  to  propagate  himself.  This  meeting  of  the  divine 
primal  matter  with  the  earth-matter  was  the  fall  of  heaven 
into  sin.  Thus  the  world,  existence,  mankind,  are  nothing  but 
a  phantom,  an  appearance,  a  dream-image 

The  Poet.  My  dream! 

The  Daughter.  A  dream  of  truth!  But  in  order  to 
free  themselves  from  the  earth-matter,  the  offspring  of  Brahma 
seek  privation  and  suffering.  There  you  have  suffering  as 
a  liberator.  But  this  craving  for  suffering  comes  into  con- 
flict with  the  craving  for  enjoyment,  or  love — do  you  now 
understand  what  love  is,  with  its  utmost  joys  merged  into  its 


THEDREAMPLAY  101 

utmost  sufferings,  with  its  mixture  of  what  is  most  sweet  and 
most  bitter  ?  Can  you  now  grasp  what  woman  is  ?  Woman, 
through  whom  sin  and  death  found  their  way  into  Hfe  ? 

The  Poet.  I  understand! —     And  the  end? 

The  Daughter.  You  know  it :  conflict  between  the  pain 
of  enjoyment  and  the  pleasure  of  suffering — between  the  pangs 
of  the  penitent  and  the  joys  of  the  prodigal 

The  Poet.  A  conflict  it  is  then  ? 

The  Daughter.  Conflict  between  opposites  produces  en- 
ergy, as  fire  and  water  give  the  power  of  steam ■ 

The  Poet,  But  peace?     Rest? 

The  Daughter.  Hush!  You  must  ask  no  more,  and  I 
can  no  longer  answer.  The  altar  is  already  adorned  for 
the  sacrifice — the  flowers  are  standing  guard — the  candles  are 
lit — there  are  white  sheets  in  the  windows — spruce  boughs 
have  been  spread  in  the  gateway 

The  Poet.  And  you  say  this  as  calmly  as  if  for  you  suffer- 
ing did  not  exist! 

The  Daughter.  You  think  so  ? — •  I  have  suffered  all 
your  sufferings,  but  in  a  hundredfold  degree,  for  my  sensations 
were  so  much  more  acute 

The  Poet.  Relate  vour  sorrow! 

The  Daughter.  Poet,  could  you  tell  yours  so  that  not 
one  word  went  too  far?  Could  your  word  at  any  time  ap- 
proach your  thought  ? 

The  Poet.  No,  you  are  right!  To  myself  I  appeared  like 
one  struck  dumb,  and  when  the  mass  listened  admiringly  to 
my  song,  I  found  it  mere  noise — for  this  reason,  you  see,  I 
have  always  felt  ashamed  when  they  praised  me. 

The  Daughter.  And  then  you  ask  me —  Look  me 
straight  in  the  eye! 

The  Poet.  I  cannot  bear  your  glance 


102  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Daughter.  How  could  you  bear  my  word  then,  were 
I  to  speak  in  your  tongue  ? 

The  Poet.  But  tell  me  at  least  before  you  go:  from  what 
did  you  suffer  most  of  all  down  here  ? 

The  Daughter.  From — being:  to  feel  my  vision  weakened 
by  an  eye,  my  hearing  blunted  by  an  ear,  and  my  thought,  my 
bright  and  buoyant  thought,  bound  in  labyrinthine  coils  of 
fat.  You  have  seen  a  brain — what  roundabout  and  sneaking 
paths 

The  Poet.  Well,  that  is  because  all  the  right-minded  think 
crookedly ! 

The  Daughter.  Malicious,  always  malicious,  all  of  jou! 

The  Poet.  How  could  one  possibly  be  otherwise  ? 

The  Daughter.  First  of  all  I  now  shake  the  dust  from 
my  feet — the  dirt  and  the  clay — 

[Takes  off  her  shoes  and  puts  them  into  the  fire. 

The  Portress.  [Puts  her  shawl  into  the  fire]  Perhaps  I 
may  burn  my  shawl  at  the  same  time  ?  [Goes  out. 

The  Officer.  [E7iters]  And  I  my  roses,  of  which  only  the 
thorns  are  left.  [Goes  out. 

The  Billposter.  [Enters]  My  bills  may  go,  but  never  the 
dipnet!  [Goes  out. 

The  Glazier.  [Enters]  The  diamond  that  opened  the 
door — good-bye!  [Goes  out. 

The  Lawyer.  [Enters]  The  minutes  of  the  great  process 
concerning  the  pope's  beard  or  the  water  loss  in  the  sources  of 
the  Ganges.  [Goes  out. 

Master  of  Quarantine.  [Enters]  A  small  contribution  in 
shape  of  the  black  mask  that  made  me  a  blackamoor  against 
my  will!  [Goes  out. 

Victoria.  [Enters]  My  beauty,  my  sorrow!  [Goes  out. 

Edith.  [Enters]  My  plainness,  my  sorrow!  [Goes  out. 


THEDREAMPLAY  103 

The  Blindman.  [Enters;  puts  his  hand  into  thejire]  1  give 
my  hand  for  my  eye.  [Goes  out. 

Don  Juan  in  his  wheel  chair;  She  and  The  Friend. 

Don  Juan.  Hurry  up!     Hurry  up!     Life  is  short! 

[Leaves  with  the  other  two. 

The  Poet.  I  have  read  that  when  the  end  of  hfe  draw^s 
near,  everything  and  everybody  rushes  by  in  continuous  re- 
view—     Is  this  the  end  "^ 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  it  is  my  end.     Farewell! 

The  Poet.  Give  us  a  parting  word. 

The  Daughter.  No,  I  cannot.  Do  you  beheve  that  your 
words  can  express  our  thoughts  ? 

Dean  of  Theology.  [Enters  in  a  rage^  I  am  cast  off  by 
God  and  persecuted  by  man;  I  am  deserted  by  the  govern- 
ment and  scorned  by  my  colleagues!  How  am  I  to  believe 
when  nobody  else  believes .'  How  am  I  to  defend  a  god  that 
does  not  defend  his  own  ?     Bosh,  that's  what  it  is ! 

[Throics  a  book  on  thejire  and  goes  out. 

The  Poet.  [Snatches  the  book  out  ofthejirc]  Do  you  know 
what  it  is  ?  A  martyrology,  a  calendar  with  a  martyr  for 
each  day  of  the  year. 

The  Daughter.  Martyr? 

The  Poet.  Yes,  one  that  has  been  tortured  and  killed  on 
account  of  his  faith!  Tell  me  why  ? —  Do  you  think  that  all 
who  are  tortured  suffer,  and  that  all  who  are  killed  feel  paia  ? 
Suffering  is  said  to  be  salvation,  and  death  a  liberation. 

Christine.  [With  slips  of  paper]  I  paste,  I  paste  until 
there  is  nothing  more  to  paste 

The  Poet.  And  if  heaven  should  split  in  twain,  you  would 
try  to  paste  it  together —     Away! 

Christine.  Are  there  no  double  windows  in  this  castle  ? 

The  Poet.  Not  one,  I  tell  you. 

Christine.  Well,  then  I'll  go.  [Goes  out. 


104  THEDREAMPLAY 

The  Daughter. 

The  parting  hour  has  come,  the  end  draws  near. 
And  now  farewell,  thou  dreaming  child  of  man. 
Thou  singer,  who  alone  knows  how  to  live! 
When  from  thy  winged  flight  above  the  earth 
At  times  thou  sweepest  downward  to  the  dust, 
It  is  to  touch  it  only,  not  to  stay! 

And  as  I  go — how,  in  the  parting  hour. 

As  one  must  leave  for  e'er  a  friend,  a  place. 

The  heart  with  longing  swells  for  what  one  loves,   . 

And  with  regret  for  all  wherein  one  failed! 

O,  now  the  pangs  of  life  in  all  their  force 

I  feel :  I  know  at  last  the  lot  of  man 

Regretfully  one  views  what  once  was  scorned; 

For  sins  one  never  sinned  remorse  is  felt; 

To  stay  one  craves,  but  equally  to  leave: 

As  if  to  horses  tied  that  pull  apart. 

One's  heart  is  split  in  twain,  one's  feelings  rent, 

By  indecision,  contrast,  and  discord. 

Farewell!     To  all  thy  fellow-men  make  known 

That  where  I  go  I  shall  forget  them  not; 

And  in  thy  name  their  grievance  shall  be  placed 

Before  the  throne.     Farewell! 

She  goes  into  the  castle.  Music  is  heard.  The  hack' 
ground  is  lit  up  by  the  burning  castle  and  reveals  a 
wall  of  human  faces,  questioning,  grieving,  despairing. 
As  the  castle  breaks  into  flames,  the  bud  on  the  roof 
opens  into  a  gigantic  chrysanthemum  flower. 

Curtain. 


THE  LINK 

A   TRAGEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 


1877 


CHARACTERS 


The  Judge,  27  ijears 
The  Pastor,  60  years 
The  Baron,  42  years 
The  Baroness,  40  years 
Alexander  Eklund 
Emmanuel  Wickberg 
Carl  Johan  Sjoberg 
Eric  Otto  Boman 
Arenfrid  Soderberg 
Olof  Andersson  of  Wik 
Carl  Peter  Andersson  of 

Berga 
Alex  Wallin 
Anders  Eric  Ruth 
Swen  Oscar  Erlin 
August  Alexander  Vass 
ludwig  ostman 
The  Clerk  of  the  Court 
The  Sheriff 
The  Constable 
The  Lawyer 
Alexandersson,  a  farmer 
Alma  Jonsson,  a  servant  girl 
The  Milkmaid 
The  Farm  Hand 
Spectators 


■   Jurors 


THE  LINK 

A  court-room.  Door  and  windows  in  the  background.  Through 
the  'windows  are  seen  the  churchyard  and  the  bell-tower. 
Door  on  the  right.  On  the  left,  the  desk  of  the  judge  on  a 
platform.  The  front  side  of  the  desk  is  decorated  in  gold, 
with  the  judicial  enihlcms  of  the  sword  and  the  scales.  On 
both  sides  of  the  desk  are  placed  chairs  and  small  tables  for 
the  twelve  jurors.  In  the  centre  of  the  room,  benches  for 
the  spectators.  Along  the  sides  of  the  room  are  cupboards 
built  into  the  walls.  On  the  doors  of  these  are  posted  court 
notices  and  schedides  of  market  tolls. 

SCENE  I 
The  Sheriff  and  The  Constable 

The  Sheriff.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  lot  of  people  at  the 
summer  sessions  before  ? 

The  Constable.  Not  in  fifteen  years,  or  since  we  had  the 
big  murder  at  Alder  Lake. 

Sheriff.  Well,  this  story  here  is  almost  as  good  as  a  double 
parricide.  That  the  Baron  and  the  Baroness  are  going  to 
separate  is  scandal  enough,  but  when  on  top  of  it  the  families 
take  to  wrangling  about  properties  and  estates,  then  it's  easy 
to  see  that  there's  going  to  be  a  hot  time.  The  only  thing 
wanting  now  is  that  they  get  to  fighting  over  the  child,  too, 
and  then  King  Solomon  himself  can't  tell  what's  right. 

Constable.  What  is  there  behind  this  case  anyhow  ?  Some 
say  this  and  some  say  that,  but  the  blame  ought  to  rest  on 
somebody  ? 

107 


108  THE   LINK  sc.  i 

Sheriff.  I  don't  know  about  that.  Sometimes  it  is  no- 
body's fault  when  two  quarrel,  and  then  again  one  alone  is  to 
blame  for  the  quarrel  of  two.  Now  take  my  old  shrew,  for 
instance,  she's  running  around  at  home  scolding  for  dear  life 
all  by  herself  when  I  am  away,  they  tell  me.  Besides,  this 
is  not  just  a  quarrel,  but  a  full-fledged  criminal  case,  and  in 
most  such  one  party  is  complainant,  or  the  one  that  has  been 
wronged,  and  the  other  is  defendant,  or  the  one  that  has  com- 
mitted the  crime.  But  in  this  case  it  is  not  easy  to  tell  who  is 
guilty,  for  both  parties  are  at  once  complainants  and  defen- 
dants. 

Constable.  Well,  well,  queer  things  do  happen  these  days. 
It's  as  if  the  women  had  gone  crazy.  My  old  one  has  spells 
when  she  says  that  I  should  bear  children  also,  if  there  was  any 
justice  in  things — just  as  if  the  Lord  didn't  know  how  he  made 
his  own  creatures.  And  then  I  get  long  rigmaroles  about  her 
being  human  also,  just  as  if  I  didn't  know  that  before,  or  had 
said  anything  to  the  contrary;  and  of  her  being  tired  of  acting 
as  my  servant  girl,  when,  for  a  fact,  I  am  not  much  better  than 
her  hired  man. 

Sheriff.  So-o.  So  you  have  got  that  kind  of  plague  in 
your  house  too.  Mine  reads  a  paper  she  gets  at  the  manor,  and 
then  she  tells  me  as  something  wonderful,  one  day,  that  some 
farmer's  lass  has  turned  mason,  and  the  next  that  an  old 
woman  has  set  upon  and  beaten  her  sick  husband.  I  cannot 
quite  get  at  what's  the  meaning  of  it  all,  but  it  looks  most  as 
if  she  was  mad  at  me  for  being  a  man. 

Constable.  Mighty  queer,  that's  what  it  is.  [Offers  snuff] 
Fine  weather  we're  having.  The  rye  is  standing  as  thick  as 
the  hairs  in  a  fox  fell,  and  we  got  over  the  black  frosts  without 
a  hitch. 

Sheriff.  There  is  nothing  of  mine  growing,  and  good 
years  are  bad  for  me:  no  executions  and  no  auctions.     Do 


SC.  II 


THE   LINK  109 


you  know  anything  about  the  new  judge  who  is  going  to  hold 
court  to-day  ? 

Constable.  Not  much,  but  I  understand  he's  a  youngster 
who  has  just  got  his  appointment  and  is  going  to  sit  for  the 
first  time  now 

Sheriff.  And  they  say  he  is  rehgious.     Urn! 

Constable.  Hm-hm! —  They're  taking  an  awful  time 
over  the  church  services  this  year. 

Sheriff.  [Puts  a  big  Bible  on  the  judge's  desk  and  a  smaller 
one  on  each  one  of  the  jurors'  tables]  It  cannot  be  long  till 
they're  done  now,  for  they  have  been  at  it  most  of  an  hour. 

Constable.  He's  a  wonder  at  preaching,  is  the  Pastor, 
once  he  gets  going.  [Pause]  Are  the  parties  to  put  in  a  per- 
sonal appearance  ? 

Sheriff.  Both  of  them,  so  I  guess  we'll  have  some  scrap- 
ping—  [The  bell  in  the  tower  begins  to  ring]  There,  now  they're 
done —  Just  give  the  tables  a  wiping,  and  I  think  we  are 
ready  to  start. 

Constable.  And  there's  ink  in  all  the  wells? 


SCENE  II 

The  Baron  and  the  Baroness  enter. 

Baron.  [In  a  low  voice  to  the  Baroness]  Then,  before  we 
part  for  a  year,  we  are  perfectly  agreed  on  all  points.  First, 
no  recriminations  in  court  r 

Bahoness.  Do  you  think  I  would  care  to  lay  open  the 
intimate  details  of  our  common  life  before  a  lot  of  curious 
peasants  ? 

Baron.  So  much  the  better!  And  further:  you  keep  the 
child  during  the  year  of  separation,  provided  it  may  visit  me 


no  THE    LINK 


SC.  II 


when  I  so  desire,  and  provided  it  is  educated  in  accordance 
with  the  principles  laid  down  by  me  and  approved  by  you  ? 

Baroness,  Exactly! 

Baron.  And  out  of  the  income  from  the  estate  I  give  you 
three  thousand  crowns  during  the  year  of  separation  ? 

Baroness.  Agreed. 

Baron,  Then  I  have  nothing  more  to  add,  but  ask  only  to 
bid  you  good-bye.  Why  we  part  is  known  only  to  you  and 
me,  and  for  the  sake  of  our  son  no  one  else  must  know  it.  But 
for  his  sake  I  beg  you  also:  start  no  fight,  lest  we  be  goaded 
into  soiling  the  names  of  his  parents.  It  is  more  than  likely, 
anyhow,  that  life  in  its  cruelty  will  make  him  suffer  for  our 
divorce. 

Baroness.  I  don't  care  to  fight  as  long  as  I  may  keep  my 
child. 

Baron.  Let  us  then  concentrate  our  attention  on  the  child's 
welfare  and  forget  what  has  happened  between  us.  And  re- 
member another  thing:  if  we  fight  about  the  child  and  ques- 
tion each  other's  fitness  to  take  care  of  it,  the  judge  may  take 
it  away  from  both  of  us  and  put  it  with  some  of  those  religious 
people  who  will  bring  it  up  in  hatred  and  contempt  for  its 
parents. 

Baroness.  That's  impossible! 

Baron.  Such,  my  dear,  is  the  law. 

Baroness.  It  is  a  stupid  law. 

Baron.  Maybe,  but  it  holds;  and  for  you  no  less  than  for 
others. 

Baroness.  It  is  unnatural!  And  I  should  never  submit 
to  it. 

Baron.  You  don't  have  to,  as  we  have  decided  to  raise  no 
objections  against  each  other.  We  have  never  agreed  before, 
but  on  this  one  point  we  are  at  one,  are  we  not:  to  part  with- 


SC.  Ill 


THE   LINK  111 


out  any  kind  of  hostility  ?  [To  the  Sheriff]  Could  the  Baron- 
ess be  permitted  to  wait  in  that  room  over  there  ? 
Sheriff.  Certainly,  walk  right  in. 

The  Baron  escorts  the  Baroness  to  the  door  on  the  right 
and  leaves  then  himself  through  the  door  in  the  back- 
ground. 


SCENE  III 

r/ie  Sheriff,    T/ie  Constable.    T/k?  Lawyer.  Alma 
JoNssoN.    The  Milkmaid.    The  Farm  Hand. 

Lawyer.  [To  Alma  Jonsson]  Look  here,  my  girl:  that  you 
have  stolen,  I  don't  doubt  for  a  moment;  but  as  your  master 
has  no  witnesses  to  it,  you  are  not  guilty.  But  as  your  master 
has  called  you  a  thief  in  the  presence  of  two  witnesses,  he  is 
guilty  of  slander.  And  now  you  are  complainant  and  he 
defendant.  Remember  this  one  thing:  the  first  duty  of  a 
criminal  is — to  deny! 

Alma  Jonsson.  But  please,  sir,  didn't  you  just  say  I  was 
no  criminal,  and  master  was  ? 

Lawyer.  You  are  a  criminal  because  you  have  committed 
a  theft,  but  as  you  have  called  for  a  lawyer,  it  is  my  unmis- 
takable duty  to  clear  you  and  convict  your  master.  There- 
fore, and  for  the  last  time:  deny!  [To  the  ivitnesses]  And  as 
to  the  witnesses,  what  are  they  going  to  testify  ?  Listen :  a 
good  witness  sticks  to  the  case.  Now  you  must  bear  in  mind 
that  the  question  is  not  whether  Alma  has  stolen  anything  or 
not,  but  only  whether  Alexandersson  said  that  she  had  stolen. 
For,  mark  you,  he  has  no  right  to  prove  his  assertions,  but 
we  have.  Why  it  should  be  so,  the  devil  only  knows!  But 
that's  none  of  your  business.  Therefore:  keep  your  tongues 
straight  and  your  fingers  on  the  Bible! 


112  THE    LINK  sc.  iv 

Milkmaid.  Lord,  but  I'm  that  scared,  for  I  don't  know 
what  I'm  going  to  say! 

Farm  Hand.  You  say  as  I  do,  and  then  you  won't  be  lying. 


SCENE  IV 

The  Judge  and  the  Pastor  enter. 

Judge.  Permit  me  to  thank  you  for  the  sermon.  Pastor. 

Pastor.  Oh,  don't  mention  it,  Judge. 

Judge.  Yes — for,  as  you  know,  this  is  my  first  court.  To 
tell  the  truth,  I  have  felt  some  fear  of  this  career,  into  which 
I  have  been  thrown  almost  against  my  will.  For  one  thing, 
the  laws  are  so  imperfect,  the  judicial  practices  so  uncertain, 
and  human  nature  so  full  of  falsehood  and  dissimulation,  that 
I  have  often  wondered  how  a  judge  could  dare  to  express  any 
definite  opinion  at  all.  And  to-day  you  have  revived  all  my 
old  fears. 

Pastor.  To  be  conscientious  is  a  duty,  of  course,  but  to  be 
sentimental  about  it  won't  do.  And  as  everything  else  on  this 
earth  is  imperfect,  there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  expect 
judges  and  judgments  to  be  perfect. 

Judge.  That  may  be,  but  it  does  not  prevent  me  from  har- 
bouring a  sense  of  tremendous  responsibility,  as  I  have  men's 
fates  in  my  hand,  and  a  word  spoken  by  me  may  show  its 
effects  through  generations.  I  am  especially  thinking  of  this 
separation  suit  started  by  the  Baron  and  his  wife,  and  I  have 
to  ask  you — you  who  have  administered  the  two  prescribed 
warnings  before  the  Vestry  Board — what  is  your  view  con- 
cerning their  mutual  relations  and  relative  guilt  ? 

Pastor.  In  other  words.  Judge,  you  would  either  put  me 
in  your  own  place  or  base  your  decision  on  my  testimony. 
And  all  I  can  do  is  to  refer  you  to  the  minutes  of  the  board. 


sc.  IV  THE   LINK  113 

Judge.  Yes,  the  minutes —  I  know  them.  But  it  is 
just  what  does  not  appear  in  the  minutes  that  I  need  to 
know. 

Pastor.  What  charges  the  couple  made  against  each  other 
at  the  private  hearings  must  be  my  secret.  And  besides,  how 
can  I  know  who  told  the  truth  and  who  lied  ?  I  have  to  tell 
you  what  I  told  them :  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  believe 
more  in  one  than  in  the  other. 

Judge.  But  were  you  not  able  to  form  some  kind  of  opinion 
in  the  matter  during  the  hearings  ? 

Pastor.  When  I  heard  one,  I  formed  one  opinion,  and 
another  when  I  was  hearing  the  other.  In  a  word:  I  have 
no  settled  view  in  this  question. 

Judge.  But  I  am  to  express  a  definite  view —  I,  who  know 
nothing  at  all. 

Pastor.  That  is  the  heavy  task  of  the  judge,  which  I  could 
never  undertake. 

Judge.  But  there  are  witnesses  to  be  heard  .'  Evidence  to 
be  obtained  ? 

Pastor.  No,  they  are  not  accusing  each  other  in  public. 
And  furthermore:  two  false  witnesses  will  furnish  sufficient 
proof,  and  a  perjurer  will  do  just  as  well.  Do  you  think  I 
would  base  my  judgment  on  servant  gossip,  on  the  loose- 
tongued  chatter  of  envious  neighbours,  or  on  the  spiteful  par- 
tisanship of  relatives .' 

Judge.  You  are  a  terrible  sceptic,  Pastor. 

Pastor.  Well,  one  gets  to  be  so  after  sixty,  and  particularly 
after  having  tended  souls  for  forty  years.  The  habit  of  lying 
clings  like  original  sin,  and  I  believe  that  all  men  lie.  As 
children  we  lie  out  of  fear;  as  grown-ups,  out  of  interest,  need, 
instinct  for  self-preservation;  and  I  have  known  those  who 
lied  out  of  sheer  kindliness.  In  the  present  case,  and  in  so 
far  as  this  married  couple  is  concerned,  I  fear  you  will  find 


114  THE   LINK 


SC.  V 


it  very  hard  to  figure  out  who  has  told  most  of  the  truth,  and 
all  I  can  do  is  to  warn  you  against  being  caught  in  the  snares 
set  by  preconceived  opinions.  You  were  married  not  long 
ago  yourself,  and  you  are  still  under  the  spell  of  the  young 
woman's  witchery.  For  this  reason  you  may  easily  become 
prejudiced  in  favor  of  a  young  and  charming  lady,  who  is  an 
unhappy  wife  and  a  mother  besides.  On  the  other  hand, 
you  have  also  recently  become  a  father,  and  as  such  you  cannot 
escape  being  moved  by  the  impending  separation  of  the  father 
from  his  child.  Beware  of  sympathy  with  either  side,  for 
sympathy  with  one  is  cruelty  to  the  other. 

Judge.  One  thing  will  make  my  task  more  easy  at  least, 
and  that  is  their  mutual  agreement  on  the  principal  points. 

Pastor.  Don't  rely  too  much  on  that,  for  it  is  what  they  all 
say.  And  when  they  appear  in  court,  the  smouldering  fire 
breaks  into  open  flames.  In  this  case  a  tiny  spark  will  be 
enough  to  start  a  conflagration.  Here  comes  the  jury.  Well, 
good-by  for  a  while!     I  stay,  although  I  shall  not  be  seen. 


SCENE  V 

The  Twelve  Jurors  enter.     The  Sheriff  rings  a  hell 
from  the  open  doorway  in  the  background.     The  mem- 
bers of  the  Court  take  their  seats.     Spectators  pour 
into  the  room. 

Judge.  With  a  reminder  of  the  provisions  in  Chapter 
Eleven,  Sections  Five,  Six,  and  Eight,  of  the  Criminal  Code,  as 
to  the  peace  and  order  that  must  be  maintained  in  Court,  I 
hereby  declare  the  proceedings  of  the  Court  opened.  [Whis- 
pers to  the  Clerk  of  the  Court;  then]  Will  the  newly  chosen 
jury  please  take  the  oath. 

Jurors.  [Rise,  each  one  putting  the  fingers  of  one  hand  on 


sc.  V  THE   LINK  115 

the  Bible  in  front  of  him;  then  they  speak  in  unison  except 
when  their  names  are  being  read  oiit^ 

I,  Alexander  Eklund; 

I,  Emmanuel  Wickberg; 

I,  Carl  Johan  Sjoberg; 

I,  Erie  Otto  Boman; 

I,  Arenfrid  Soderberg; 

I,  Olof  Andersson  of  Wik; 

I,  Carl  Peter  Andersson  of  Berga; 

I,  Axel  Wallin; 

I,  Anders  Eric  Ruth; 

I,  Swen  Oscar  Erlin; 

I,  August  Alexander  Vass; 

I,  Ludwig  Ostman; 
\all  at  once,  keeping  time  and  speaking  with  low  voices  in  a  low 
pitch]  promise  and  swear  by  God  and  His  Holy  Gospel,  that 
I  will  and  shall,  according  to  my  best  reason  and  conscience, 
judge  rightly  in  all  cases,  no  less  for  the  poor  than  for  the 
rich,  and  decide  in  accordance  with  the  law  of  God  and  that 
of  this  country,  as  well  as  its  legal  statutes:  [in  a  higher  pitch 
and  with  raised  voices]  never  tamper  with  the  law  or  further 
any  wrong,  for  the  sake  of  either  kinship  by  blood,  kinship 
by  marriage,  friendship,  envy,  ill-will,  or  fear;  nor  for  the 
sake  of  bribe  or  gift  or  any  other  cause,  under  any  form  what- 
soever: and  not  make  him  responsible  who  has  no  guilt,  or 
set  him  free  who  is  guilty.  [Raising  their  voices  still  further] 
Neither  before  judgment  nor  afterward,  neither  to  parties  in 
court  nor  to  others,  am  I  to  discover  such  counsel  as  may  be 
taken  by  the  Court  behind  closed  doors.  All  this  I  will  and 
shall  faithfully  keep  as  an  honest  and  upright  judge,  without 
fell  deceit  or  design —  [Pause]  So  help  God  my  life  and  soul! 

[The  Jurors  sit  down. 
Judge.  [To  the  Sheriff]  Call  the  case  of  Alma  Jonsson 
against  the  farmer  Alexandersson. 


116  THE    LINK  sc.  vi 


SCENE  VI 

Enter  the  Lawyer,   Alexandersson,  Alma  Jonsson, 
the  Milkmaid,  tlie  Farm  Hand. 

Sheriff.  [Calls  out]  The  servant  girl  Alma  Jonsson  and 
the  farmer  Alexandersson. 

Lawyer.  I  wish  to  present  my  power  of  attorney  for  the 
complainant. 

Judge.  [Examines  the  submitted  document;  then}  The  ser- 
vant girl  Alma  Jonsson  has  had  writ  served  on  her  former 
master,  Alexandersson,  bringing  charges  under  Chapter  Six- 
teen, Section  Eight,  of  the  Criminal  Code,  providing  for  im- 
prisonment of  not  more  than  six  months,  or  a  fine,  because 
Alexandersson  has  called  her  a  thief  without  supporting  his 
accusation  or  making  legal  charges.  What  have  you  to  say, 
Alexandersson  ? 

Alexandersson.  I  called  her  a  thief  because  I  caught  her 
stealing. 

Judge.  Have  you  witnesses  to  her  theft? 
Alexandersson.  No,  as  luck  would  have  it,  there's  no 
witnesses,  for  I  mostly  go  about  by  myself. 

Judge.  Why  did  you  not  make  a  charge  against  her  ? 
Alexandersson.  Well,  I  never  go  to  court.     And  then 
it  isn't  the  usage  among  us  masters  to  prosecute  household 
thefts,  partly  because  there  are  so  many  of  'em,  and  partly  be- 
cause we  don't  like  to  spoil  a  servant's  whole  future. 

Judge.  Alma  Jonsson,  what  have  you  to  say  in  answer  to 
this.? 

Alma  Jonsson.  Ya-es 

Lawyer.  You  keep  quiet!  Alma  Jonsson,  who  is  not  a 
defendant  in  this  case,  but  the  complainant,  asks  to  have  her 


sc.  VII  THE    LINK  117 

witnesses  heard  in  order  that  she  may  prove  the  slander  ut- 
tered against  her  by  Alexandersson. 

Judge.  As  Alexandersson  has  admitted  the  slander,  I  shall 
ask  for  no  witnesses.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  of  importance 
for  me  to  know  whether  Alma  Jonsson  be  guilty  of  the  offence 
mentioned,  for  if  Alexandersson  had  reasonable  grounds  for 
his  utterance,  this  will  be  held  a  mitigating  circumstance  when 
sentence  is  passed. 

Lawi'er.  I  must  take  exception  to  the  statement  made  by 
the  Court,  for  by  Chapter  Sixteen,  Section  Thirteen,  of  the 
Criminal  Code,  one  charged  with  slander  is  denied  the  right 
to  bring  evidence  as  to  the  truth  of  his  defamation. 

Judge.  Parties,  witnesses,  and  spectators  will  retire  so  that 
the  Court  may  consider  the  case. 

[All  go  out  except  the  members  of  the  Court. 


SCENE  VII 

The  Court. 

Judge.  Is  Alexandersson  an  honest  and  reliable  man  ? 

All  the  Jurors.  Alexandersson  is  a  reliable  man. 

Judge.  Is  Alma  Jonsson  known  as  an  honest  servant .'' 

Eric  Otto  Boman.  I  had  to  discharge  Alma  Jonsson  last 
year  for  petty  thievery. 

Judge.  And  nevertheless  I  have  now  to  fine  Alexandersson, 
There  is  no  way  out  of  it.     Is  he  poor  ? 

Ludwig  Ostman.  He's  behind  with  his  Crown  taxes,  and 
his  crop  failed  last  year.  So  I  guess  the  fine  will  be  more  than 
he  can  carry. 

Judge.  And  yet  I  can  find  no  reason  to  postpone  the  case, 
as  it  is  a  clear  one,  and  Alexandersson  has  no  right  to  prove 


118  THE   LINK 


SC.  VIII 


anything  on  his  side.  Has  any  one  here  anything  to  add  or 
object  ? 

Alexander  Eklund.  I  would  just  ask  leave  to  make  a 
general  reflection.  A  case  like  this,  where  one  not  only  inno- 
cent, but  ofi"ended  against,  has  to  take  the  punishment,  while 
the  thief  has  his  so-called  honour  restored,  may  easily  bring 
about  that  people  grow  less  forbearing  toward  their  fellow- 
men,  and  that  taking  cases  to  court  grows  more  common. 

Judge.  This  is  quite  possible,  but  general  reflections  have 
no  place  in  the  proceedings,  and  the  Court  has  to  make  a  de- 
cision. Consequently  my  one  question  to  the  jury  is:  can 
Alexandersson  be  held  guilty  under  Chapter  Sixteen,  Section 
Thirteen,  of  the  Criminal  Code .'' 

All  the  Jurors.  Yes. 

Judge.  [To  the  Sheriff]  Call  in  the  parties  and  the  wit- 
nesses. 


SCENE  VIII 

All  return. 

Judge.  In  the  case  of  Alma  Jonsson  against  the  farmer 
Alexandersson,  Alexandersson  is  sentenced  to  pay  a  fine  of 
one  hundred  crowns  for  slander. 

Alexandersson.  But  I  saw  her  stealing  with  my  own 
eyes! —     That's  what  one  gets  for  being  kind! 

Lawyer.  [To  Alma  Jonsson]  What  did  I  tell  you!  If 
you  only  deny,  everything  is  all  right.  Alexandersson  acted 
like  a  fool  and  denied  nothing.  If  I  had  been  his  counsel, 
and  he  had  denied  the  charge,  I  should  have  challenged  your 
witnesses,  and  there  you  would  have  been ! —  Now  we'll  go 
out  and  settle  up  this  business. 

[Goes  out  with  Alma  Jonsson  and  the  witnesses. 


sc.  IX  THE    LINK  119 

Alexandersson.  [To  the  Sheriff]  And  perhaps  I  have 
now  got  to  give  Alma  her  papers  and  write  down  that  she  has 
been  honest  and  faithful  ? 

Sheriff.  That's  none  of  my  concern ! 

Alexandersson.  [To  the  Constable.]  And  for  a  thing  like 
this  I  am  to  lose  house  and  land!  Who'd  believe  it,  that  jus- 
tice means  honour  for  the  thief  and  a  flogging  for  him  that's 
robbed!  Damn  it! —  Come  and  have  a  cup  of  coffee  with 
a  stick  in  it  afterward,  Oman. 

Constable.  I'll  come,  but  don't  make  a  row. 

Alexandersson.  Yes,  I'll  be  damned  if  I  don't,  even  if  it 
should  cost  me  three  months! 

Constable.  Now  please  don't  make  a  row — don't  make  a 
row! 


SCENE  IX 

The  Baron  and  the  Baroness  enter  after  awhile. 

Judge.  [To  the  Sheriff]  Call  the  separation  suit  of  Baron 
Sprengel  and  his  wife,  born  Malmberg. 

Sheriff.  Separation  suit  of  Baron  Sprengel  and  his  wife, 
bom  Malmberg. 

The  Baron  and  the  Baroness  enter. 

Judge.  In  the  proceedings  entered  against  his  wife,  Baron 
Sprengel  declares  his  intention  of  not  continuing  the  marriage, 
and  requests  that,  as  the  warnings  of  the  Vestry  Board  have 
proved  fruitless,  order  be  issued  for  a  year's  separation  in  bed 
and  board.  What  objection  have  you  to  make  to  this.  Baron- 
ess ? 

Baroness.  To  the  separation  I  make  no  objection  at  all 
if  I  can  only  have  my  child.     That  is  my  condition. 


120  T  H  E   L  I  N  K  sc.  ix 

Judge.  The  law  recognises  no  conditions  in  a  case  like 
this,  and  it  is  for  the  Court  to  dispose  of  the  child. 

Baroness.  Why,  that's  very  peculiar! 

Judge.  For  this  reason  it  is  of  utmost  importance  that  the 
Court  learn  who  has  caused  the  dissension  leading  to  this  suit. 
According  to  appended  minutes  of  the  Vestry  Board,  it  ap- 
pears that  the  wife  has  admitted  having  at  times  shown  a 
quarrelsome  and  difficult  disposition,  while  the  husband  has 
admitted  no  fault.  Thus,  Baroness,  you  appear  to  have  ad- 
mitted  

Baroness.  That's  a  lie! 

Judge.  I  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  the  minutes  of  the 
Vestry  Board,  countersigned  by  the  Pastor  and  eight  other 
trustworthy  men,  can  be  inaccurate. 

Baroness.  The  report  is  false! 

Judge.  Such  remarks  cannot  be  made  with  impunity  be- 
fore this  Court. 

Baron.  May  I  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  I  have  volun- 
tarily surrendered  the  child  to  the  Baroness  on  certain  condi- 
tions ? 

Judge.  And  I  have  to  repeat  once  more  what  I  said  before, 
namely,  that  the  case  will  be  decided  by  the  Court  and  not  by 
the  parties  to  it.  Therefore:  you  deny  having  caused  any 
dissension.  Baroness  ? 

Baroness.  Indeed,  I  do!  And  it  is  not  the  fault  of  one 
that  two  quarrel. 

Judge.  This  is  no  quarrel.  Baroness,  but  a  criminal  case; 
and  furthermore,  you  seem  now  to  be  displaying  a  contentious 
temperament  as  well  as  inconsiderate  behaviour. 

Baroness.  Then  you  don't  know  my  husband. 

Judge.  Will  you  please  explain  yourself,  for  I  can  base  no 
decision  on  mere  insinuations. 


sc.  IX  THE    LINK  121 

Baron.  Then  I  must  ask  to  have  the  case  dismissed,  so  that 
I  can  obtain  separation  in  other  ways. 

Judge.  The  case  is  already  before  the  Court  and  will  have 
to  be  carried  to  its  conclusion-  Baroness,  you  maintain 
then  that  your  husband  has  caused  the  estrangement.  Can 
this  be  proved .' 

Baroness.  Yes,  it  can  be  proved. 

Judge.  Please  do  so  then,  but  bear  in  mind  that  it  is  a 
question  of  depriving  the  Baron  of  his  parental  rights  and  also 
of  his  rights  to  the  property. 

Baroness.  He  has  forfeited  it  many  times  over,  and  not 
the  least  when  he  denied  me  sleep  and  food. 

Baron.  I  feel  compelled  to  state  that  I  have  never  refused 
to  let  the  Baroness  sleep.  I  have  merely  asked  her  not  to 
sleep  in  the  afternoon,  because  thereby  the  house  was  neg- 
lected and  the  child  left  without  proper  care.  As  to  food,  I 
have  always  left  such  matters  to  my  wife,  and  I  have  only  ob- 
jected to  some  extravagant  entertainments,  as  the  neglected 
household  could  not  bear  such  expenses. 

Baroness.  And  he  has  let  me  lie  sick  without  calling  in  a 
physician. 

Baron.  The  Baroness  would  always  be  taken  sick  when 
she  could  not  have  her  own  way,  but  that  kind  of  ailment  did 
not  last  long  as  a  rule.  After  I  had  brought  a  specialist  from 
the  city,  and  he  had  declared  it  to  be  nothing  but  tricks,  I 
did  not  judge  it  necessary  to  call  a  physician  the  next  time  the 
Baroness  was  taken  sick— because  the  new  pier-glass  cost  fifty 
crowns  less  than  originally  intended. 

Judge.  All  this  is  not  of  such  nature  that  it  can  be  con- 
sidered when  such  a  serious  case  has  to  be  decided.  There 
must  be  some  deeper  motives. 

Baroness.  It  ought  to  be  counted  a  motive  that  the  father 
will  not  permit  the  mother  to  bring  up  her  own  child. 


122  THE   LINK  sc.  ix 

Baron.  First  of  all,  the  Baroness  left  the  care  of  the  child 
to  a  maid,  and  whenever  she  tried  to  assist,  things  went  wrong. 
Secondly,  she  tried  to  bring  up  the  boy  as  a  woman,  and  not 
as  a  man.  For  instance,  she  dressed  him  as  a  girl  until  he  was 
four  years  old ;  and  to  this  very  day,  when  he  is  eight  years  old, 
he  carries  his  hair  long  as  a  girl,  is  forced  to  sew  and  cro- 
chet, and  plays  with  dolls;  all  of  which  I  regard  as  injurious 
to  the  child's  normal  development  into  a  man.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  has  amused  herself  by  dressing  up  the  daughters  of 
our  tenants  as  boys,  cutting  their  hair  short,  and  putting  them 
to  work  on  things  generally  handled  by  boys.  In  a  word,  I 
took  charge  of  my  son's  education  because  I  noticed  symptoms 
of  mental  derangement  which  before  this  have  led  to  offences 
against  the  Eighteenth  Chapter  of  the  Criminal  Code. 

Judge.  And  yet  you  are  now  willing  to  leave  the  child  in 
the  hands  of  the  mother  ? 

Baron.  Yes,  for  I  have  never  been  able  to  contemplate 
such  a  cruelty  as  to  separate  mother  and  child — and  also  be- 
cause the  mother  has  promised  to  mend  her  ways.  And  for 
that  matter,  I  had  only  promised  conditionally,  and  with  the 
understanding  that  the  law  was  not  to  be  invoked  in  the  matter. 
But  since  we  have  not  been  able  to  keep  away  from  recrim- 
inations, I  have  changed  my  mind — especially  as,  from  being 
the  complainant,  I  have  been  turned  into  a  defendant. 

Baroness.  That's  the  way  this  man  always  keeps  his 
promises. 

Baron.  My  promises,  like  those  of  other  people,  have 
always  been  conditional,  and  I  have  kept  them  as  long  as  the 
conditions  were  observed. 

Baroness.  In  the  same  way  he  had  promised  me  personal 
freedom  within  the  marriage. 

Baron.  Naturally  with  the  provision  that  the  laws  of  de- 
cency were  kept  inviolate;  but  when  all  bounds  were  exceeded, 


sc.  IX  THE   LINK  123 

and  when  ideas  of  license  appeared  under  the  name  of  free- 
dom, then  I  regarded  my  promise  as  annulled. 

Baroness.  And  for  this  reason  he  tormented  me  with  the 
most  absurd  jealousy,  and  that  is  generally  enough  to  make  a 
common  hfe  unbearable.  He  even  made  himself  ridiculous 
to  the  extent  of  being  jealous  of  the  doctor. 

Baron.  This  alleged  jealousy  may  be  reduced  to  an  ad- 
vice on  my  part  against  the  employment  of  a  notorious  and 
tattling  masseur  for  an  ailment  commonly  treated  by  women — 
unless  the  Baroness  is  having  in  mind  the  occasion  when  I 
showed  our  steward  the  door  for  smoking  in  my  drawing-room 
and  offering  cigars  to  my  wife. 

Baroness.  As  we  have  not  been  able  to  keep  away  from 
scandal-mongering,  it  is  just  as  well  that  the  whole  truth  should 
get  out:  the  Baron  has  been  guilty  of  adultery.     Is  not  this 
enough  to  make  him  unworthy  of  bringing  up  my  child  alone  "i 
Judge.  Can  you  prove  this.  Baroness  } 
Baroness.  Yes,  I  can,  and  here  are  letters  that  show. 
Judge.  [Receiving  the  letters]  How  long  ago  did  this  hap- 
pen.'' 

Baroness.  A  year  ago. 

Judge.  Of  course,  the  time  limit  for  prosecution  has  al- 
ready expired,  but  the  fact  itself  weighs  heavily  against  the 
husband  and  may  cause  him  to  lose  the  child  entirely  as  well 
as  a  part  of  the  marriage  portion.  Do  you  admit  the  truth 
of  this  charge,  Baron  ? 

Baron.  Yes,  with  remorse  and  mortification;  but  there 
were  circumstances  wiiich  ought  to  be  held  extenuatino-.  I 
was  forced  into  humiliating  celibacy  by  the  calculated  cold- 
ness of  the  Baroness,  although  I,  and  in  all  courtesy,  asked 
as  a  favour,  what  the  law  allowed  me  to  demand  as  a  right.  I 
tired  of  buying  her  love,  she  having  prostituted  our  marriage  by 
selling  her  favours  first  for  power  and  later  for  presents  and 


124  THE    LINK 


SC.  IX 


money;  and  in  the  end  I  found  myself  compelled,  with  the  ex- 
press consent  of  the  Baroness,  to  take  up  an  irregular  relation- 
ship. 

Judge.  Had  you  given  your  consent,  Baroness  ? 

Baroness.  No,  that  is  not  true!     I  demand  proofs! 

Baron.  It  is  true,  but  I  cannot  prove  it,  since  the  only  wit- 
ness, my  wife,  denies  it. 

Judge.  What  is  unproved  need  not  be  untrue,  but  a  com- 
pact of  this  kind,  trespassing  upon  prevailing  laws,  must  be 
held  a  factum  turpe  and  invalid  in  itself.  Baron,  so  far  every- 
thing is  against  you. 

Baroness.  And  as  the  Baron  has  confessed  his  guilt  with 
remorse  and  shame,  I,  who  have  now  become  complainant  in- 
stead of  defendant,  ask  that  the  Court  proceed  to  render  a  de- 
cision, as  further  details  are  not  needed. 

Judge.  In  my  capacity  as  presiding  officer  of  this  Court,  I 
wish  to  hear  what  the  Baron  has  to  say  in  justification,  or  at 
least  in  palliation. 

Baron.  I  have  just  admitted  the  charge  of  adultery  and 
have  advanced  as  extenuating  circumstances,  partly  that  it 
was  the  result  of  pressing  need  when,  after  ten  years  of  married 
life,  I  suddenly  found  myself  unmarried,  and  partly  that  it 
was  done  with  the  consent  of  the  Baroness  herself.  As  I  have 
now  come  to  believe  that  all  this  was  a  trap  set  to  make  a  case 
against  me,  it  is  my  duty,  for  the  sake  of  my  son,  to  hold  back 
no  further 

Baroness.  [Exclaims  iiistinctiveli/]  Axel! 

Baron.  What  caused  me  to  break  my  marital  vows  was 
the  faithlessness  of  the  Baroness. 

Judge.  Baron,  can  you  prove  that  the  Baroness  has  been 
faithless  to  you? 

Baron.  No !  For  I  was  concerned  about  the  honour  of  the 
family,  and  I  destroyed  all  proofs  that  I  obtained.     But  I 


sc.  IX  THE   LINK  125 

still  venture  to  believe  that,  in  this  matter,  the  Baroness  will 
stand  by  the  confession  she  once  made  to  me. 

Judge.  Baroness,  do  you  admit  this  offence  as  preceding 
and,  therefore,  probably  causing  the  lapse  of  the  Baron  ? 

Baroness.  No! 

Judge.  Are  you  willing  to  repeat  under  oath  that  you  are 
innocent  of  this  charge  .-' 

Bakoness.  Yes! 

Baron.  Good  heavens!  No,  she  must  not  do  that!  No 
perjury  for  my  sake ! 

Judge.  I  ask  once  more :  is  the  Baroness  willing  to  take  the 
oath  ? 

Baroness.  Yes. 

Baron.  Permit  me  to  suggest  that  the  Baroness  just  now  ap- 
pears as  complainant,  and  a  complaint  is  not  made  under  oath. 

Judge.  As  you  have  charged  her  with  a  criminal  offence, 
she  is  defendant.     What  does  the  Jury  hold  .'' 

Emmanuel  Wickberg.  As  the  Baroness  is  a  party  to  this 
suit,  it  seems  to  me  that  she  can  hardly  be  allowed  to  testify 
in  her  own  behalf. 

Swen  Oscar  Erlin.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  the  Baroness 
is  to  testify  under  oath,  then  the  Baron  should  also  be  allowed 
to  do  so  in  the  same  matter,  but  as  oath  may  not  be  put  against 
oath,  the  whole  matter  remains  in  the  dark. 

August  Alexander  Vass.  I  should  say  that  it  is  not  a 
question  of  testifying  under  oath  here,  but  of  taking  an  oath 
on  one's  own  innocence. 

Anders  Eric  Ruth.  Well,  isn't  that  the  question  which 
has  to  be  settled  first  of  all  ? 

Axel  Wallin.  But  not  in  the  presence  of  the  parties,  as 
the  deliberations  of  the  Court  are  not  public. 

Carl  Johan  S.ioberg.  The  right  of  the  jury  to  express 
itself  is  not  limited  or  conditioned  by  secrecy. 


1^6  THE   LINK 


SC.  X 


Judge.  Out  of  so  many  meanings  I  can  get  no  guidance. 
But  as  the  guilt  of  the  Baron  can  be  proved,  and  that  of  the  Bar- 
oness still  remains  unproved,  I  must  demand  that  the  Baroness 
take  oath  on  her  innocence. 

Baroness.  I  am  ready ! 

Judge.  No,  wait  a  moment! —  Baron,  if  you  were  granted 
time,  would  you  be  able  to  produce  evidence  or  witnesses  in 
support  of  your  charge  ? 

Baron.  This  I  neither  can  nor  will  do,  as  I  am  not  anxious 
to  see  my  dishonour  made  public. 

Judge.  The  proceedings  of  the  Court  will  be  adjourned 
while  I  consult  with  the  chairman  of  the  Vestry  Board. 

[Steps  down  and  goes  out  to  the  right. 


SCENE  X 

The  Jurors  confer  in  low  tones  among  themselves. 
The  Baron  and  the  Baroness  in  the  background. 
The  Spectators  ybrw  groups  and  talk. 

Baron.  [To  the  Baroness]  You  do  not  shrink  from  per- 
juring yourself  ? 

Baroness.  I  shrink  from  nothing  when  my  child  is  con- 
cerned. 

Baron.  But  if  I  have  proofs  ? 

Baroness.  Well,  you  have  not. 

Baron.  The  letters  were  burned,  but  certified  copies  of 
them  are  still  in  existence. 

Baroness.  You  lie  to  frighten  me! 

Baron.  To  show  you  how  deeply  I  love  my  child,  and  to 
save  the  mother  at  least,  as  I  seem  to  be  lost,  you — may  have 
the  proofs.     But  don't  be  ungrateful. 

[Hands  her  a  bundle  of  letters. 


SC.  X 


THE   LINK  127 


Baroness.  That  you  are  a  liar,  I  knew  before,  but  that 
you  were  scoundrel  enough  to  have  the  letters  copied,  that  I 
could  never  have  believed. 

Baron.  That  is  your  thanks!  But  now  both  of  us  are 
lost. 

Baroness.  Yes,  let  both  go  down — then  there  will  be  an 
end  to  the  fight 

Baron.  Is  it  better  for  the  child  to  lose  both  its  parents  and 
be  left  alone  in  the  world  ? 

Baroness.  That  will  never  occur! 

Baron.  Your  absurd  conceit,  which  makes  you  think  your- 
self above  all  laws  and  above  other  human  beings,  has  lured 
you  into  starting  this  fight, in  which  there  can  be  only  one  loser: 
our  son!  What  were  you  thinking  of  when  you  began  this 
attack,  which  could  not  fail  to  provoke  a  defence  ?  Not  of 
the  child,  I  am  sure.  But  of  revenge,  I  suppose  ?  Revenge 
for  what?     For  my  discovery  of  your  guilt? 

Baroness.  The  child?  Were  you  thinking  of  the  child 
when  you  dragged  me  in  the  mire  before  this  rabble  ? 

Baron.  Helen! —  Like  wild  beasts  we  have  clawed  each 
other  bloody.  We  have  laid  our  disgrace  open  to  all  these 
who  take  pleasure  in  our  ruin,  for  in  this  room  we  have  not  a 
single  friend.  Our  child  will  after  this  never  be  able  to  speak 
of  his  parents  as  respectable  people;  he  will  not  be  able  to 
start  life  with  a  recommendation  from  father  and  mother;  he 
will  see  the  home  shunned,  the  old  parents  isolated  and  de- 
spised, and  so  the  time  must  come  when  he  will  flee  us ! 

Baroness.  What  do  you  want  then  ? 

Baron.  Let  us  leave  the  country  after  selling  the  prop- 
erty. 

Baroness.  And  begin  the  same  squabble  all  over  again! 
I  know  what  will  happen:  for  a  week  you  will  be  tame,  and 
then  vou  will  abuse  me. 


128  THE   LINK  sex 

Bauon.  Just  think — now  they  are  setthng  our  fate  in 
there.  You  cannot  hope  for  a  good  word  from  the  Pastor, 
whom  you  have  just  called  a  liar;  and  I,  who  am  known  to  be 
no  Christian,  can  expect  no  mercy  either.  Oh,  I  wish  I  were 
in  the  woods,  so  that  I  could  crawl  in  under  some  big  roots  or 
put  my  head  under  a  rock — this  is  more  shame  than  I  can 
bear ! 

Baroness.  It  is  true  that  the  minister  hates  both  of  us, 
and  it  may  happen  as  you  say.  Why  don't  you  speak  to 
him  ? 

Baron.  Of  what  ?    Making  up  ? 

Baroness.  Of  anything  you  please,  if  it  only  be  not  too 
late!  Oh,  if  it  should  be  too  late! —  What  can  that  man 
Alexandersson  want  that  makes  him  prowl  about  us  two  all 
the  time  ?     I  am  afraid  of  that  man ! 

Baron.  Alexandersson  is  a  nice  fellow. 

Baroness.  Yes,  he  is  nice  to  you,  but  not  to  me —  I  have 
observed  those  glances  before —  Go  and  see  the  Pastor  now; 
but  take  my  hand  first —     I  am  scared! 

Baron.  Of  what,  dear,  of  what  ? 

Baroness.  I  don't  know —    Everything,  everybody! 

Baron.  But  not  of  me  ? 

Baroness.  No,  not  now!  It  is  as  if  our  clothes  had  been 
caught  in  the  mill  wheels,  and  we  had  been  dragged  into  the 
machinery.  What  have  we  been  doing?  What  have  we 
been  doing  in  our  anger?  How  they  will  enjoy  themselves, 
all  these  who  are  now  seeing  the  Baron  and  the  Baroness 
stripped  naked  and  flogging  each  other —  Oh,  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  standing  here  without  a  rag  to  cover  me. 

[She  buttons  her  coat. 

Baron.  Calm  yourself,  my  dear.  It  is  not  exactly  the 
proper  place  to  tell  you  what  I  have  said  before:  that  there 
is  only  one  friend  and  one  home — but  we  might  start  over 


sex  THE   LINK  129 

again! —  Well,  heaven  knows!  No,  we  cannot  do  it.  You 
have  gone  too  far.  It  is  all  over.  And  this  last — yes,  let  it 
be  the  last!  And  it  had  to  come  after  all  the  rest.  No,  we 
are  enemies  for  life!  And  if  I  let  you  go  away  with  the  child 
now,  then  you  might  marry  again —  I  see  that  now.  And 
my  child  might  have  a  step-father;  and  I  should  have  to  watch 
another  man  going  about  with  my  wife  and  child —  Or  I 
might  myself  be  going  about  with  somebody  else's  wench 
hanging  on  my  arm.  No!  Either  you  or  I!  One  of  us 
must  be  struck  down!     You  or  I! 

Baroness.  You  !  For  if  I  let  you  take  the  child,  you  might 
marry  again,  and  I  might  have  to  see  another  woman  taking 
my  place  with  my  own  child.  The  mere  thought  of  it  could 
make  me  a  murderess !     A  step-mother  for  my  child ! 

Baron.  You  might  have  thought  of  it  before!  But  when 
you  saw  me  champing  at  the  chain  of  love  that  bound  me  to 
you,  then  you  believed  me  incapable  of  loving  anybody  but 
yourself. 

Baroness.  Do  you  think  I  ever  loved  you  ? 

Baron.  Yes,  once  at  least.  When  I  had  been  faithless  to 
you.  Then  your  love  grew  sublime.  And  your  pretended 
scorn  made  you  irresistible.  But  my  error  caused  you  to  re- 
spect me,  too.  Whether  it  was  the  male  or  the  criminal  you 
admired  most,  I  don't  know,  but  I  believe  it  was  both — it 
must  have  been  both,  for  you  are  the  most  typical  woman  I 
have  ever  met.  And  now  you  are  already  jealous  of  a  new 
wife  whom  I  have  never  thought  of.  What  a  pity  that  you 
became  my  mate!  As  my  mistress,  your  victory  would  have 
been  unchallenged,  and  your  infidelities  would  only  have 
seemed  the  bouquet  of  my  new  wine. 

Baroness.  Yes,  your  love  was  always  material. 

Baron.  Material  as  everything  spiritual,  and  spiritual  as 
all   that   is   material!     My   weakness   for  you,    which   gave 


130  T  H  E   L  I  N  K  sc.  xi 

strength  to  my  feeling,  made  you  believe  yourself  the  stronger, 
when  you  were  simply  coarser,  more  ill-natured,  and  more 
unscrupulous  than  I. 

Baroness.  You  the  stronger?  You,  who  never  want  the 
same  thing  two  minutes  in  a  stretch!  You,  who  as  a  rule 
never  know  what  you  want! 

Baron.  Yes,  I  know  perfectly  well  what  I  want,  but  there 
is  room  in  me  for  both  love  and  hatred,  and  while  I  love  you 
one  minute,  I  hate  you  the  next.     And  just  now  I  hate  you! 

Baroness.  Are  you  now  thinking  of  the  child  also  ? 

Baron.  Yes,  now  and  always !  And  do  you  know  why  ? 
Because  he  is  our  love  that  has  taken  flesh.  He  is  the  memory 
of  our  beautiful  hours,  the  link  that  unites  our  souls,  the  com- 
mon ground  where  we  must  ever  meet  without  wishing  to  do 
so.  And  that  is  why  we  shall  never  be  able  to  part,  even  if  our 
separation  be  declared —  Oh,  if  I  could  only  hate  you  as  I 
want  to! 


SCENE    XI 

The  Judge  and  the  Pastor  enter  in  conversation  and 
remain  in  the  foreground. 

Judge.  Thus  I  recognize  the  utter  hopelessness  of  seeking 
justice  or  discovering  truth.  And  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the 
laws  were  a  couple  of  centuries  behind  our  ideas  of  right.  Did 
I  not  have  to  punish  Alexandersson,  who  was  innocent,  and 
exonerate  the  girl,  who  was  guilty  of  theft?  And  as  for  this 
separation  suit,  I  know  nothing  at  all  about  it  at  this  minute, 
and  I  cannot  take  upon  my  conscience  to  render  a  decision. 

Pastor.  But  a  decision  has  to  be  rendered. 

Judge.  Not  by  me!  I  shall  give  up  my  place  and  choose 
another  profession. 


SC.  XI 


THE   LINK  131 


Pastor.  Why,  such  a  scandal  would  only  bring  you  notori- 
ety and  close  every  career  to  you.  Keep  on  judging  a  few 
years,  and  you  will  come  to  think  it  quite  easy  to  crush  human 
fates  like  egg  shells.  And  for  that  matter,  if  you  want  to  stand 
clear  of  this  case,  let  yourself  be  outvoted  by  the  jury.  Then 
they  must  take  the  responsibility  on  themselves. 

Judge.  That  is  a  way — and  I  suspect  that  they  will  be 
practically  at  one  against  me,  for  I  have  formed  an  opinion 
in  this  matter,  which,  however,  is  wholly  intuitive  and,  there- 
fore, not  to  be  trusted —     I  thank  you  for  your  advice. 

Sheriff.  [Who  has  been  talking  with  AhEXANBERSSos, steps 
up  to  the  Judge]  In  my  capacity  of  public  prosecutor,  I  have 
to  report  the  farmer  Alexandersson  as  a  witness  against 
Baroness  Sprengel. 

Judge.  In  relation  to  the  adultery  charge  ? 

Sheriff.  Yes. 

Judge.  [To  the  Pastor]  Here  is  a  new  clue  that  may  lead 
to  a  solution. 

Pastor.  Oh,  there  are  lots  of  clues,  if  you  can  only  get  hold 
of  them. 

Judge.  But  nevertheless  it  is  horrible  to  see  two  persons 
who  have  loved  trying  to  ruin  each  other.  It  is  like  being  in  a 
slaughter-house ! 

Pastor.  Well,  that  is  love.  Judge! 

Judge.  What  then  is  hatred  ? 

Pastor.  It  is  the  lining  of  the  coat. 

[The  Judge  goes  over  and  speaks  to  the  Jurors. 

Baroness.  [Comes  forward  to  the  Fastor]  Help  us.  Pastor! 
Help  us! 

Pastor.  I  cannot,  and  as  a  clergyman,  I  must  not.  And 
furthermore,  did  I  not  warn  you  not  to  play  with  such  serious 
matters?  You  thought  it  so  simple  to  part!  Well,  part  then! 
The  law  will  not  prevent  you,  so  don't  put  the  blame  on  it. 


132  THE   LINK 


SCENE    XII 


SC.   XII 


All  as  before. 

Judge.  The  Court  will  now  resume  its  proceedings.  Ac- 
cording to  the  report  of  the  public  prosecutor,  Sheriff  Wiberg, 
a  new  witness  has  appeared  against  the  Baroness  and  is  ready 
to  affirm  her  guilt  under  the  charge  of  adultery.  Farmer 
Alexandersson ! 

Alexandersson.  I  am  here. 

Judge.  How  can  you  prove  your  assertion  ? 

Alexandersson.  I  saw  the  offence  committed. 

Baroness.  He  is  lying!     Let  him  bring  proof! 

Alexandersson.  Proof  ?     I'm  a  witness  now,  ain't  I  ? 

Baroness.  Your  assertion  is  no  proof,  although  you  happen 
to  be  called  a  witness  for  the  moment. 

Alexandersson.  Maybe  the  witness  has  to  have  two  more 
witnesses,  and  those  still  others  ? 

Baroness.  Yes,  it  might  be  needed  when  one  cannot  tell 
wdiether  the  whole  lot  are  lying  or  not. 

Baron.  The  testimony  of  Alexandersson  will  not  be  re- 
quired. I  beg  leave  to  offer  the  Court  all  the  correspondence 
by  which  the  marital  infidelity  of  the  Baroness  stands  com- 
pletely proved —  Here  are  the  originals;  copies  of  them  will 
be  found  in  the  possession  of  defendant. 

[The  Baroness  utters  a  cry  but  controls  herself  quickhj. 

Judge.  And  yet.  Baroness,  you  were  willing  to  take  the  oath 
a  little  while  ago  ? 

Baroness.  But  I  didn't  take  it!  And  now  I  think  the  Baron 
and  I  may  cry  quits. 

Judge.  We  do  not  let  one  crime  cancel  another.  The 
account  of  each  one  has  to  be  settled  separately. 


SC.  XII 


THE    LINK  133 


Baroness.  Then  I  want  to  file  a  claim  at  once  against  the 
Baron  for  my  dowry  which  he  has  squandered. 

Judge.  If  you  have  squandered  your  wife's  dowry,  Baron, 
it  might  be  well  to  settle  that  matter  right  here. 

Baron.  The  Baroness  brought  with  her  six  thousand  crowns 
in  stock  that  was  then  unsalable  and  soon  became  wholly 
worthless.  As  at  the  time  of  our  marriage  she  held  a  posi- 
tion as  a  telegrapher  and  declared  herself  unwilling  to  take  sup- 
port from  her  husband,  we  made  a  marriage  contract  and 
agreed  that  each  one  should  be  self-supporting.  But  she  lost 
her  position  after  the  marriage,  and  I  have  been  supporting 
her  ever  since.  To  this  I  had  no  objection  whatever,  but  as 
she  is  now  putting  in  bills,  I  shall  ask  leave  to  present  one  of 
my  own  to  meet  hers.  It  totals  up  to  thirty-five  thousand 
crowns,  this  being  one-third  of  the  household  expenses  since 
the  beginning  of  our  marriage,  and  I  being  willing  to  take 
two-thirds  upon  myself. 

Judge.  Have  you  this  agreement  in  black  and  white.  Baron  ? 

Baron.  I  have  not. 

Judge.  Have  you  any  documents  to  prove  the  disposition 
of  your  dowry,  Baroness  ? 

Baroness.  I  didn't  think  at  the  time  it  would  be  necessary 
to  get  anything  in  writing,  as  I  supposed  myself  to  be  dealing 
with  honourable  people. 

Judge.  Then  this  whole  question  cannot  come  under  con- 
sideration here.  The  jury  will  please  step  into  the  small  court- 
room for  discussion  of  the  case  and  formulation  of  a  decision. 


134  THE    LINK 


SC,  XIII 


SCENE    XIII 

The  Jury  and  the  Judge  go  out  to  the  right. 

Alexandersson.  [To  the  Sheriff]  This  here  justice  is 
more  than  I  can  get  any  sense  out  of. 

Sheriff.  I  think  it  would  be  wiser  for  you  to  go  right  home 
now,  or  you  might  have  the  same  experience  as  the  farmer 
from  Mariestad.     Did  you  ever  hear  of  it  ? 

Alexandersson.  No. 

Sheriff.  Well,  he  went  to  court  as  spectator,  was  dragged 
into  the  case  as  witness,  became  a  party  to  it,  and  ended  up 
with  a  flogging  at  the  whipping-post. 

Alexandersson.  Oh,  hell!  But  I  believe  it  of  'em!  I 
believe  anything  of  'em!  [Goes  out. 

The  Baron  joins  the  Baroness  in  the  foreground. 

Baroness.  You  find  it  hard  to  keep  away  from  me. 

Baron.  Now  I  have  struck  you  down,  and  I  am  bleeding 
to  death  myself,  for  your  blood  is  mine 

Baroness.  And  how  clever  you  are  at  making  out  bills ! 

Baron.  Only  when  it  comes  to  counter-claims !  Your  cour- 
age is  that  of  despair,  or  that  of  a  person  sentenced  to  death. 
And  when  you  leave  here,  you  will  collapse.  Then  you  will 
no  longer  be  able  to  load  your  sorrow  and  guilt  on  me,  and 
you  will  be  suffering  from  remorse.  Do  you  know  why  I  have 
not  killed  you  ? 

Baroness.  Because  you  did  not  dare! 

Baron.  No!  Not  even  the  thought  of  hell  could  have  held 
me  back — for  I  don't  believe  in  it.  But  this  was  the  thought 
that  did  it:  even  if  you  get  the  child,  you  will  be  gone  m  five 
vears.     That  is  what  the  doctor  tells  me.     And  then  the  child 


SC.  XIII 


THE    LINK  135 


might  be  left  without  either  father  or  mother.  Think  of  it — 
all  alone  in  the  world! 

Baroness.  Five  years! —     It  is  a  lie! 

Baron.  In  five  years !  And  then  I  am  left  behind  with  the 
child  whether  you  want  it  or  not. 

Baroness.  Oh  no!  For  then  my  family  will  bring  suit  to 
get  the  child  away  from  you.     I  don't  die  when  I  die! 

Baron.  Evil  never  dies!  That  is  so!  But  can  you  explain 
why  you  grudge  me  the  child,  and  grudge  the  child  me,  whom 
it  needs?  Is  it  sheer  malice — a  craving  for  revenge  that 
punishes  the  child?  [The  Baroness  remains  silent]  Do  you 
know,  I  remarked  to  the  Pastor  that  I  thought  possibly  you 
might  have  some  doubts  concerning  the  child's  parentage, 
and  that  this  might  be  a  reason  why  you  would  not  let  me  have 
the  child,  lest  my  happiness  be  built  on  a  false  foundation. 
And  he  replied:  No,  I  don't  think  her  capable  of  it — not  of 
such  a  fine  motive — •  I  don't  think  you  know  yourself  what 
makes  you  so  fanatical  about  this  one  thing:  it  is  the  yearning 
for  continued  existence  that  goads  you  into  maintaining  your 
hold.  Our  son  has  your  body,  but  my  soul,  and  that  soul  you 
cannot  rid  him  of.  In  him  you  will  have  me  back  when  you 
least  expect  it;  in  him  you  will  find  my  thoughts,  my  tastes, 
my  passions,  and  for  this  reason  you  will  hate  him  one  day,  as 
you  hate  me  now.     That  is  what  I  fear! 

Baroness.  You  seem  still  a  little  afraid  that  he  may  be- 
come mine  ? 

Baron.  In  your  quality  of  mother  and  woman,  you  have 
a  certain  advantage  over  me  with  our  judges,  and  although 
justice  may  throw  dice  blindfolded,  there  is  always  a  little  lead 
on  one  side  of  each  die. 

Baroness.  You  know  how  to  pay  compliments  even  in  the 
moment  of  separation.  Perhaps  you  don't  hate  me  as  much 
as  you  pretend  ? 


136  THE    LINK 


SC.  XIII 


Baron.  Frankly  speaking,  I  think  that  I  hate  not  so  much 
you  as  my  dishonour,  though  you,  too,  come  in  for  a  share. 
And  why  this  hatred  ?  Perhaps  I  have  overlooked  that  you 
are  near  the  forties,  and  that  a  masculine  element  is  making 
its  appearance  in  you.  Perhaps  it  is  this  element  that  I  no- 
tice in  your  kisses,  in  your  embraces — -perhaps  that  is  what  I 
find  so  repulsive  ? 

Baroness.  Perhaps.  For  the  sorrow  of  my  life  has  been, 
as  you  well  know,  that  I  was  not  born  a  man. 

Baron.  Perhaps  that  became  the  sorrow  of  my  life!  And 
now  you  try  to  avenge  yourself  on  nature  for  having  played 
with  you,  and  so  you  want  to  bring  up  your  son  as  a  woman. 
Will  you  promise  me  one  thing  ? 

Baronkss.  AVill  you  promise  me  one  thing  ? 

Baron.  What  is  the  use  of  promising  ? 

Baroness.  No,  let  us  give  no  more  promises. 

Baron.  Will  you  answer  a  question  truthfully  ? 

Baroness.  If  I  told  the  truth,  you  would  think  I  lied. 

Baron.  Yes,  so  I  should! 

Baroness.  Can  you  see  now  that  all  is  over,  for  ever  ? 

Baron.  For  ever!  It  was  for  ever  that  we  once  swore  tc 
love  each  other. 

Baroness.  It  is  too  bad  that  such  oaths  must  be  taken! 

Baron.  Why  so .'     It  is  always  a  bond,  such  as  it  is. 

Baroness.  I  never  could  bear  with  bonds! 

Baron.  Do  you  think  it  would  have  been  better  for  us  not 
to  bind  ourselves  ? 

Baroness.  Better  for  me,  yes. 

Baron.  I  wonder.     For  then  you  could  not  have  bound  me. 

Baroness.  Nor  you  me. 

Baron.  And  so  the  result  would  have  been  the  same — as 
when  you  reduce  fractions.  Consequently:  not  the  law's 
fault;    not  our  own;    not  anybody  else's.     And  yet  we  have 


SC.  XIV 


THE   LINK  137 


to  assume  the  responsibility!   [The  Sheriff  approaches]  So! 
Now  the  verdict  has  been  pronounced —     Good-bye,  Helen! 

Baroness.  Good-bye — Axel ! 

Baron.  It  is  hard  to  part!  And  impossible  to  live  together. 
But  the  fight  is  over  at  least! 

Baroness.  If  it  were!     I  fear  it  is  just  about  to  begin. 

Sheriff.  The  parties  will  retire  while  the  Court  takes 
action. 

Baroness.  Axel,  a  word  before  it  is  too  late!  After  all, 
they  might  take  the  child  away  from  both  of  us.  Drive  home 
and  take  the  boy  to  your  mother,  and  then  we  will  flee  from 
here,  far  away ! 

Baron.  I  think  you  are  trying  to  fool  me  again. 

Baroness.  No,  I  am  not.  I  am  no  longer  thinking  of 
you,  or  of  myself,  or  of  my  revenge.  Save  the  child  only! 
Listen,  Axel — you  must  do  it! 

Baron.  I  will.  But  if  you  are  deceiving  me —  Never 
mind:  I'll  do  it! 

Goes  Old  quickly.     The  Baroness  leaves  through  the 
door  in  the  background. 


SCENE    XIV 

The  Jury  and  the  Judge  enter  and  resume  their  seats. 

Judge.  As  we  now  have  the  case  complete  before  us,  I 
shall  ask  each  juror  separately  to  state  his  opinion  before 
decision  is  rendered.  Personally,  I  can  only  hold  it  reason- 
able that  the  child  be  given  to  the  mother,  as  both  parties 
are  equally  to  blame  for  the  estrangement,  and  as  the  mother 
must  be  held  better  adapted  to  the  care  of  the  child  than  the 
father.  [Silence. 

Alexander  Eklund.  According  to  prevailing  law,  it  is 


138  THE   LINK  sc.  xiv 

the  wife  who  takes  her  rank  and  condition  from  the  husband, 
not  the  husband  from  the  wife. 

Emmanuel  Wickberg.  And  the  husband  is  the  proper 
guardian  of  his  wife. 

Carl  Johan  Sj(3Berg.  The  ritual,  which  gives  binding 
force  to  the  marriage,  says  that  the  wife  should  obey  her  hus- 
band, and  so  it  is  clear  to  me  that  the  man  takes  precedence 
of  the  woman. 

Eric  Otto  Boman.  And  the  children  are  to  be  brought 
up  in  the  faith  of  the  father. 

Arenfrid  Soderberg.  From  which  may  be  concluded  that 
children  follow  the  father  and  not  the  mother. 

Olof  Andersson  of  Wik.  But  as  in  the  case  before  us 
both  man  and  wife  are  equally  guilty,  and,  judging  by  what 
has  come  to  light,  equally  unfit  to  rear  a  child,  I  hold  that  the 
child  should  be  taken  away  from  both. 

Carl  Peter  Andersson  of  Berga.  In  concurring  with 
Olof  Andersson,  I  may  call  to  mind  that  in  such  cases  the 
Court  names  two  good  men  as  guardians  to  take  charge  of 
children  and  property,  so  that  out  of  the  latter  man  and  wife 
may  have  their  support  together  with  the  child. 

Axel  Wallin.  And  for  guardians  I  wish  in  this  case  to 
propose  Alexander  Eklund  and  Arenfrid  Soderberg,  both  of 
whom  are  well  known  to  be  of  honest  character  and  Christian 
disposition. 

Anders  Eric  Ruth.  I  concur  with  Olof  Andersson  of 
Wik  as  to  the  separation  of  the  child  from  both  father  and 
mother,  and  with  Axel  Wallin  as  to  the  guardians,  whose 
Christian  disposition  makes  them  particularly  fitted  to  bring 

up  the  child. 

Swen  Oscar  Erlwc.  I  concur  in  what  has  just  been  said. 

August  Alexander  Vass.  I  concur. 

LuDWiG  Ostman.  I  concur.  - 


sc.  XV  T  H  E    L  I  N  K  139 

Judge.  As  the  opinion  expressed  by  a  majority  of  the  jurors 
is  contrary  to  my  own,  I  must  ask  the  Jury  to  take  a  vote  on 
the  matter.  And  I  think  it  proper  first  to  put  the  motion  made 
by  Olof  Andersson  for  the  separation  of  the  child  from  both 
father  and  mother,  and  for  the  appointment  of  guardians.  Is 
it  the  unanimous  will  of  the  Jury  that  such  action  be  taken  ? 

All  the  Jurors.  Yes. 

Judge.  If  anybody  objects  to  the  motion,  he  will  hold  up 
his  hand.  [Silence]  The  opinion  of  the  Jury  has  won  out  against 
my  own,  and  I  shall  enter  an  exception  on  the  minutes  against 
what  seems  to  me  the  needless  cruelty  of  the  decision —  The 
couple  will  then  be  sentenced  to  a  year's  separation  of  bed 
and  board,  at  the  risk  of  imprisonment  if,  during  that  period, 
they  should  seek  each  other.  [To  the  Sheriff]  Call  in  the 
parties. 


SCENE    XV 

The  Baroness  and  Spectators  enter. 

Judge.  Is  Baron  Sprengel  not  present  ? 
Baroness.  The  Baron  will  be  here  in  a  moment. 
Judge.  Whoever  does  not  observe  the  time,  has  onlv  him- 
self  to  blame.  This  is  the  decision  of  the  County  Court: 
that  husband  and  wife  be  sentenced  to  a  year's  separation  of 
bed  and  board,  and  that  the  child  be  taken  from  the  parents 
and  placed  in  charge  of  two  guardians  for  education.  For 
this  purpose  the  Court  has  selected  and  appointed  the  jurors 
Alexander  Ekiund  and  Arenfrid  Soderberg. 

The  B.4HONESS  cries  out  and  sinks  to  the  floor.  The 
oHERiFF  and  tli^  Con'^i'able  ro>V  her  up  and  place 
her  on  a  chair.  Some  of  the  Spectaiors  leave  in  the 
meantime. 


140  THE    LINK 


SC.    XVI 


Baron.  [Ejiters]  Your  Honor!  I  heard  the  sentence  of  the 
Court  from  the  outside,  and  I  wish  to  enter  a  challenge,  first 
against  the  Jury  as  a  whole,  it  being  made  up  of  my  personal 
enemies,  and  secondly  against  the  guardians,  Alexander  Ek- 
lund  and  Arenfrid  Soderberg,  neither  of  whom  possesses  the 
financial  status  demanded  of  guardians.  Furthermore,  I  shall 
enter  proceedings  against  the  judge  for  incompetence  dis- 
played in  the  exercise  of  his  offijce,  in  so  far  as  he  has  failed  to 
recognise  that  the  primary  guilt  of  one  led  to  the  subsequent 
guilt  of  the  other,  so  that  both  cannot  be  held  equally  respon- 
sible. 

Judge.  Whosoever  be  not  satisfied  with  the  decision  ren- 
dered may  appeal  to  the  higher  court  within  the  term  set  by 
law.  Will  the  Jury  please  accompany  me  on  house  visitation 
to  the  Rectory  in  connection  with  the  suit  pending  against  the 
communal  assessors .'' 

The  Judge  and  the  Jury  go  out  through  the  door  in  the 
background. 


SCENE    XVI 

The  Baron  and  the  Baroness.     The  Spectators 
withdraw  gradually. 

Baroness.  Where  is  Emil  ? 

Baron.  He  was  gone! 

Baroness,  That's  a  lie! 

Baron.  [After  a  pause]  Yes —  I  did  not  bring  him  to  my 
mother,  whom  I  cannot  trust,  but  to  the  Rectory. 

Baroness.  To  the  minister! 

Baron.  Your  one  reliable  enemy!  Yes.  Who  was  there 
else  that  I  might  trust  ?     And  I  did  it  because  a  while  ago  I 


SC.  XVI 


THE    LINK  141 


caught  a  glance  in  your  eye  which  made  me  think  that  you 
possibly  might  kill  yourself  and  the  child. 

Baroness.  You  saw  that! —  Oh,  why  did  I  let  myself  be 
fooled  into  believing  you. 

Baron.  Well,  what  do  you  say  of  all  this  ? 
Baroness.  I  don't  know.     But  I  am  so  tired  that  I  no 
longer  feel  the  blows.     It  seems  almost  a  relief  to  have  re- 
ceived the  final  stab. 

Baron.  You  give  no  thought  to  what  is  now  going  to  hap- 
pen: how  your  son  is  going  to  be  brought  up  by  two  peasants, 
whose  ignorance  and  rude  habits  will  kill  the  child  by  slow 
torture;  how  he  is  going  to  be  forced  down  into  their  narrow 
sphere;  how  his  intelligence  is  going  to  be  smothered  by  re- 
ligious superstition;  how  he  is  going  to  be  taught  contempt  for 

his  father  and  mother 

Baroness.  Hush!  Don't  say  another  word,  or  I  shall  lose 
my  reason!  My  Emil  in  the  hands  of  peasant  women,  who 
don't  know  enough  to  wash  themselves,  who  have  their  beds 
full  of  vermin,  and  who  cannot  even  keep  a  comb  clean!  My 
Emil!     No,  it  is  impossible! 

Baron.  It  is  the  actual  reality,  and  you  have  nobody  but 
yourself  to  blame  for  it. 

Baroness.  Myself  ?  But  did  I  make  myself  ?  Did  I  put 
evil  tendencies,  hatred,  and  wild  passions  into  myself?  No! 
And  who  was  it  that  denied  me  the  power  and  will  to  combat 
all  those  things  ? —  When  I  look  at  myself  this  moment,  I 
feel  that  I  am  to  be  pitied.     Am  I  not  ? 

Baron.  Yes,  you  are!  Both  of  us  are  to  be  pitied.  We 
tried  to  avoid  the  rocks  that  beset  marriage  by  living  unmarried 
as  husband  and  wife;  but  nevertheless  we  quarrelled,  and  we 
were  sacrificing  one  of  life's  greatest  joys,  the  respect  of  our 
fellow-men — and  so  we  were  married.  But  we  must  needs 
steal  a  march  on  the  social  body  and  its  laws.     We  vranted  no 


142  THE   LINK  sc.  x%t 

religious  ceremony,  but  instead  we  wriggled  into  a  civil  mar- 
riage. We  did  not  want  to  depend  on  each  other — we  were 
to  have  no  common  pocket-book  and  to  insist  on  no  personal 
ownership  of  each  other — and  with  that  we  fell  right  back  into 
the  old  rut  again.  Without  wedding  ceremony,  but  with  a 
marriage  contract!  And  then  it  went  to  pieces.  I  forgave 
your  faithlessness,  and  for  the  child's  sake  we  lived  together 
in  voluntary  separation — and  freedom!  But  I  grew  tired  of 
introducing  my  friend's  mistress  as  my  wife — and  so  we  had 
to  get  a  divorce.  Can  you  guess — do  you  know  against  whom 
we  have  been  fighting?  You  call  him  God,  but  I  call  him 
nature.  And  that  was  the  master  who  egged  us  on  to  hate 
each  other,  just  as  he  is  egging  people  on  to  love  each  other. 
And  now  we  are  condemned  to  keep  on  tearing  each  other 
as  long  as  a  spark  of  life  remains.  New  proceedings  in  the 
higher  court,  reopening  of  the  case,  report  by  the  Vestry  Board, 
opinion  from  the  Diocesan  Chapter,  decision  by  the  Supreme 
Court.  Then  comes  my  complaint  to  the  Attorney-General, 
my  application  for  a  guardian,  your  objections  and  counter- 
suits:  from  pillory  to  post!  Without  hope  of  a  merciful 
executioner!  Neglect  of  the  property,  financial  ruin,  scamped 
education  for  the  child!  And  why  do  we  not  put  an  end  to 
these  two  miserable  lives  ?  Because  the  child  stays  our  hands ! 
You  cry,  but  I  cannot!  Not  even  when  my  thought  runs 
ahead  to  the  night  that  is  waiting  for  me  in  a  home  laid  waste! 
And  you,  poor  Helen,  who  must  go  back  to  your  mother! 
That  mother  whom  you  once  left  with  such  eagerness  in  order 
to  get  a  home  of  your  own.  To  become  her  daughter  once 
more — and  perhaps  find  it  worse  than  being  a  wife !  One  year! 
Two  years!  Many  years!  How  many  more  do  you  think  we 
can  bear  to  suffer  ? 

Baroness.  I  shall  never  go  back  to  my  mother.     Never! 
I  shall  go  out  on  the  high-roads  and  into  the  woods  so  that  I 


SC.  XVI 


THE   LINK  143 


may  find  a  hiding-place  where  I  can  scream — scream  myself 
tired  against  God,  who  has  put  this  infernal  love  into  the 
world  as  a  torment  for  us  human  creatures — and  when  night 
comes,  I  shall  seek  shelter  in  the  Pastor's  barn,  so  that  I  may 
sleep  near  my  child. 

Baron.  You  hope  to  sleep  to-night — you  ? 

Curtain. 


THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH 
1901 

PART  I 


CHARACTERS 

Edgar,  Captain  in  the  Coast  Artillery 
Alice,  his  loife,  a  former  actress 
Curt,  Master  of  Quarantine 
Jenny  ^ 

The  Old  Woman      V   Subordinate 

(     characters 
The  Sentry  i 


THE   DANCE   OF  DEATH 

PART    I 

The  scene  is  laid  inside  of  a  round  fort  built  of  granite. 

In  the  background,  a  gateway,  closed  by  huge,  swinging  double 

doors;  in  these,  small  square  window  panes,  through  which 

may  be  seen  a  sea  shore  tcith  batteries  and  the  sea  beyond. 

On  either  side  of  the  gatexoay,  a  window  xoith  flower  pots  and 

bird  cages. 
To  the  right  of  the  gateway,  an  upright  piano;  further  down 

the  stage,  a  seiving-tablc  and  two  easy-chairs. 
On  the  left,  half-way  down  the  stage,  a  writing-table  with  a 
telegraph  instrument  on  it;  further  down,  a  what-not  full 
of  framed  photographs.     Beside  it,  a  couch  that  can  be  used 
to  sleep  on.     Against  the  wall,  a  buffet. 
A  lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling.     On  the  wall  near  the  piano 
hang  two  large  laurel  wreaths  with  ribbons.     Betxoeen  them, 
the  picture  of  a  woman  in  stage  dress. 
Beside  the  door,  a  hat-stand  on  which  hang  accoutrements, 

sabres,  and  so  forth.  Near  it,  a  chiffonier. 
To  the  left  of  the  gateway  hangs  a  mercurial  barometer. 
It  is  a  mild  Fall  evening.  The  doors  stand  open,  and  a  sentry 
is  seen  pacing  back  and  forth  on  the  shore  battery.  He 
wears  a  helmet  xoith  a  forward  pointed  brush  for  a  crest. 
Noio  and  then  his  drawn  sabre  catches  the  red  glare  of  the 
setting  svn.     The  sea  lies  dark  and  quiet. 

The  Cafi'ain  sits  in  the  easy-chair  to  the  left  of  the 
sewing-table,  fumbling  an  extinguished  cigar.  He 
has  on  a  much-worn  undress  uniform  and  riding-boots 
with  spurs.  Looks  tired  and  bored. 
Alick  sits  in  the  easy-chair  on  the  right,  doing  nothing 
at  all.  Looks  tired  and  expectant. 
147 


148        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Captain.  Won't  you  play  something  for  me  ? 

Alice.  [Indifferently,  hut  not  snapjnshli/]  What  am  I  to 
play  ? 

Captain.  Whatever  suits  you. 

Alice.  You  don't  like  my  repertory. 

Captain.  Nor  you  mine. 

Alice.  [Evcmvely]  Do  you  want  the  doors  to  stay  open  ? 

Captain.  If  you  wish  it. 

Alice.  Let  them  be,  then.      [Pause]  Why  don't  you  smoke  ? 

Captain.  Strong  tobacco  is  beginning  not  to  agree  with  me. 

Alice.  [In  an  almost  friendly  tone]  Get  weaker  tobacco 
then.     It  is  your  only  pleasure,  as  you  call  it. 

Captain.  Pleasure — what  is  that? 

Alice.  Don't  ask  me.  I  know  it  as  little  as  you —  Don't 
you  want  your  whiskey  yet  ? 

Captain.  I'll  wait  a  little.     What  have  you  for  supper  ? 

Alice.  How  do  I  know  ?     Ask  Christine. 

Captain.  The  mackerel  ought  to  be  in  season  soon — now 
the  Fall  is  here. 

Alice.  Yes,  it  is  Fall! 

Captain.  Within  and  without.  But  leaving  qside  the  cold 
that  comes  with  the  Fall,  both  within  and  without,  a  little 
broiled  mackerel,  with  a  slice  of  lemon  and  a  glass  of  white 
Burgundy,  wouldn't  be  so  very  bad. 

Alice.  Now  you  grow  eloquent. 

Captain.  Have  we  any  Burgundy  left  in  the  wine-cellar? 

Alice.  So  far  as  I  know,  we  have  had  no  wine-cellar  these 
last  five  years 

Captain.  You  never  know  anything.  However,  we  must 
stock  up  for  our  silver  wedding. 

Alice.  Do  you  actually  mean  to  celebrate  it? 

Captain.  Of  course! 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        149 

Alice.  It  would  be  more  seemly  to  hide  our  misery — our 
twenty-five  years  of  misery 

Capi'ain.  My  dear  Alice,  it  has  been  a  misery,  but  we  have 
also  had  some  fun — now  and  then.  One  has  to  avail  one- 
self of  what  little  time  there  is,  for  afterward  it  is  all  over. 

Alice.  Is  it  over  ?     Would  that  it  were ! 

Captain.  It  is  over!  Nothing  left  but  what  can  be  put  on 
a  wheel-barrow  and  spread  on  the  garden  beds. 

Alice.  And  so  much  trouble  for  the  sake  of  the  garden  beds ! 

Captain.  Well,  that's  the  way  of  it.  And  it  is  not  of  my 
making. 

Alice.  So  much  trouble !  [Pause]  Did  the  mail  come  ? 

Captain.  Yes. 

Alice.  Did  the  butcher  send  his  bill  ? 

Captain.  Yes. 

Alice.  How  large  is  it  ? 

Capt.'VIN.  [Takes  a  fa  per  from  his  pocket  and  puts  on  his 
spectacles,  but  takes  them  off  again  at  once]  Look  at  it  yourself. 
I  cannot  see  any  longer. 

Alice.  What  is  wrong  with  your  eyes  ? 

Captain.  Don't  know. 

Alice.  Growing  old  ? 

Captain.  Nonsense!    I? 

Alice.  Well,  not  I! 

Captain.  Hm! 

Alice.  [Looking  at  the  bill]  Can  you  pay  it  ? 

Captain.  Yes,  but  not  this  moment. 

Alice.  Some  other  time,  of  course!  In  a  year,  when  you 
have  been  retired  with  a  small  pension,  and  it  is  too  late !  And 
then,  when  your  trouble  returns 

Captain.  Trouble?  I  never  had  any  trouble — only  a 
slight  indisposition  once.  And  I  can  live  another  twenty 
years. 


150        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  The  doctor  thought  otherwise. 

Captain.  The  doctor! 

Alice.  Yes,  who  else  could  express  any  valid  opinion  about 
sickness  ? 

Captain.  I  have  no  sickness,  and  never  had.  I  am  not 
going  to  have  it  either,  for  I  shall  die  all  of  a  sudden — like  an 
old  soldier. 

Alice.  Speaking  of  the  doctor — you  know  they  are  having 
a  part^  to-night  ? 

Captain.  [Agitated]  Yes,  what  of  it?  We  are  not  invited 
because  we  don't  associate  with  those  people,  and  we  don't 
associate  with  them  because  we  don't  want  to — because  we 
despise  both  of  them.     Rabble — that's  what  they  are! 

Alice.  You  say  that  of  everybody. 

Captain.  Because  everybody  is  rabble. 

Alice.  Except  yourself. 

Captain.  Yes,  because  I  have  behaved  decently  under  all 
conditions  of  life.     That's  why  I  don't  belong  to  the  rabble. 

[Pause. 

Alice.  Do  you  want  to  play  cards  ? 

Captain.  All  right. 

Alcce.  [Takes  a  pack  of  cards  from  the  drawer  in  the  sewing- 
table  and  begins  to  shuffle  them]  Just  think,  the  doctor  is  per- 
mitted to  use  the  band  for  a  private  entertainment! 

Captain.  [Angrili/]  That's  because  he  goes  to  the  city  and 
truckles  to  the  Colonel.  Truckle,  you  know — if  one  could  only 
do  that! 

Alice.  [Deals]  I  used  to  be  friendly  with  Gerda,  but  she 
played  me  false 

Captain.  They  are  all  false!  What  did  you  turn  up  for 
trumps  ? 

Alice.  Put  on  your  spectacles. 

Captain.  They  are  no  help—    Well,  well  I 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        1^1 


Alice.  Spades  are  trumps. 
Captain.  [Disoppoinled]  Spades- 


Alice.  [Leads]  Well,  be  that  as  it  may,  our  case  is  settled 
in  advance  with  the  wives  of  the  new  officers. 

Cafiwin.  [Taking  the  trick]  What  does  it  matter?  We 
never  give  any  parties  anyhow,  so  nobody  is  the  wiser.  I  can 
live  by  myself — as  I  have  always  done. 

Alice.  I,  too.  But  the  children  ?  The  children  have  to 
grow  up  without  any  companionship. 

Captain.  Let  them  find  it  for  themselves  in  the  city —  I 
take  that!     Got  any  trumps  left.' 

Alice.  One —     That's  mine! 

Captain.  Six  and  eight  make  fifteen 

Alice.  Fourteen — fourteen ! 

Captain.  Six  and  eight  make  fourteen.  I  think  I  am 
also  forgetting  how  to  count.  And  two  makes  sixteen — 
[Yawns]  It  is  your  deal. 

Alice.  You  are  tired  ? 

Captain.  [Dealing]  Not  at  all. 

Alice.  [Listening  in  direction  of  the  open  doors]  One  can 
hear  the  music  all  this  way.  [Pause]  Do  you  think  Curt  is 
invited  also  ? 

Captain.  He  arrived  this  morning,  so  I  guess  he  has  had 
time  to  get  out  his  evening  clothes,  though  he  has  not  had  time 
to  call  on  us. 

Alice.  Master  of  Quarantine — is  there  to  be  a  quarantine 
station  here  ? 

Captain.  Yes. 

Alice.  He  is  my  own  cousin  after  all,  and  once  I  bore  the 
same  name  as  he 

Captain.  In  which  there  was  no  particular  honour 


Alice.  See  here!  [Sharply]  You  leave  my  family  alone, 
and  I'll  leave  yours! 


152        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Captain.  All  right,  all  right — don't  let  us  begin  again! 

Alice.  Must  the  Master  of  Quarantine  be  a  physician  ? 

Captain.  Oh,  no,  he's  merely  a  sort  of  superintendent  ( r 
book-keeper — and  Curt  never  became  anything  in  particular. 

Alice.  He  was  not  much  good 

Captain.  And  he  has  cost  us  a  lot  of  money.  And  when 
he  left  wife  and  children,  he  became  disgraced. 

Alice.  Not  quite  so  severe,  Edgar! 

Captain.  That's  what  happened!  What  has  he  been  do- 
ing in  America  since  then  ?  Well,  I  cannot  say  that  I  am 
longing  for  him — but  he  was  a  nice  chap,  and  I  liked  to  argue 
with  him. 

Alice.  Because  he  was  so  tractable ■ 

Captain.  [Haughtilij]  Tractable  or  not,  he  was  at  least  a 
man  one  could  talk  to.  Here,  on  this  island,  there  is  not 
one  person  who  understands  what  I  say — it's  a  community  of 
idiots ! 

Alice.  It  is  rather  strange  that  Curt  should  arrive  just  in 
time  for  our  silver  wedding — whether  we  celebrate  it  or  not 

Captain.  Why  is  that  strange?  Oh,  I  see!  It  was  he 
who  brought  us  together,  or  got  you  married,  as  they  put  it. 

Alice.  Well,  didn't  he  ? 

Captain.  Certainly!  It  was  a  kind  of  fixed  idea  with 
him —    I  leave  it  for  you  to  say  what  kind. 

Alice.  A  wanton  fancy 

Captain.  For  which  we  have  had  to  pay,  and  not  he! 

Alice.  Yes,  think  only  if  I  had  remained  on  the  stage!  AH 
my  friends  are  stars  now. 

Captain.  [Rising]  Well,  well,  well!  Now  I  am  going  to 
have  a  drink.  [Goes  over  to  the  buffet  and  mixes  a  drink,  which 
he  takes  standing  up]  There  should  be  a  rail  here  to  put  the 
foot  on,  so  that  one  might  dream  of  being  at  Copenhagen,  in 
the  American  Bar. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        153 

Alice.  Let  us  put  a  rail  there,  if  it  will  only  remind  us  of 
Copenhagen.     For  there  we  spent  our  best  moments. 

Captain.  [Drinks  quickly]  Yes,  do  you  remember  that 
"navarin  aux  pommes"  ? 

Alice.  No,  but  I  remember  the  concerts  at  the  Tivoli. 

Captain.  Yes,  your  tastes  are  so — exalted! 

Alice.  It  ought  to  please  you  to  have  a  wife  whose  taste 
is  good. 

Captain.  So  it  does. 

Alice.  Sometimes,  when  you  need  something  to  brag  of 

Captain.  [Drinking]  I  guess  they  must  be  dancing  at  the 
doctor's — I  catch  the  three-four  time  of  the  tuba:  boom — 
boom-boom ! 

Alice.  I  can  hear  the  entire  melody  of  the  Alcazar  Waltz. 
Well,  it  was  not  yesterday  I  danced  a  waltz 

Captain.  You  think  you  could  still  manage  ? 

Alice.  Still  ? 

Captain.  Ye-es.  I  guess  you  are  done  w-ith  dancing,  you 
like  me! 

Alice.  I  am  ten  years  younger  than  you. 

Captain.  Then  we  are  of  the  same  age,  as  the  lady  should 
be  ten  years  younger. 

Alice.  Be  ashamed  of  yourself!  You  are  an  old  man — 
and  I  am  still  in  my  best  years. 

Captain.  Oh,  I  know,  you  can  be  quite  charming — to 
others,  when  you  make  up  your  mind  to  it. 

Alice.  Can  we  light  the  lamp  now? 

Captain.  Certainly. 

Alice.  Will  you  ring,  please. 

The  Captain  goes  languidly  to  the  writing-table  and 
rings  a  bell. 

Jenny  enters  from  the  right. 


154        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Captain.  Will  you   be  kind  enough   to   light   the   lamp, 
Jenny  ? 

Alice.  [Sharpli/]  I  want  you  to  light  the  hanging  lamp. 

Jenny.  Yes,  ma'am. 

[Lights  the  lamp  while  the  Captain  watches  her. 

Alice.  [Stifflij]  Did  you  wipe  the  chimney? 

Jenny.  Sure. 

Alice.  What  kind  of  an  answer  is  that  ? 

Captain.  Now — now 

Alice.  [To  Jenny]  Leave  us.    I  will  light  the  lamp  myself. 
That  will  be  better. 

Jenny-;  I  think  so  too.  [Starts  for  the  door. 

Alice.  [Rising]  Go! 

Jenny.  [Stops]  I  wonder,  ma'am,  what  you'd  say  if  I  did 

go? 

Alice  remains  silent. 

Jenny  goes  out. 

The  Captain  comes  forward  and  lights  the  lamp. 

Alice.  \With  concern]  Do  you  think  she  will  go  ? 

Captain.  Shouldn't  wonder.    And  then  we  are  in  for  it 

Alice.  It's  your  fault!     You  spoil  them. 

Captain.  Not  at  all.  Can't  you  see  that  they  are  always 
polite  to  me  ? 

Alice.  Because  you  cringe  to  them.  And  you  always  cringe 
to  inferiors,  for  that  matter,  because,  like  all  despots,  you  have 
the  nature  of  a  slave. 

Captain.  There — there! 

Alice.  Yes,  you  cringe  before  your  men,  and  before  your 
sergeants,  but  you  cannot  get  on  with  your  equals  or  your 
superiors. 

Captain.  Ugh! 

Alice.  That's  the  way  of  all  tyrants —  Do  you  think  she 
will  go .'' 


THE    DANCE   OF   DEATH        155 

Captain.  Yes,  if  you  don't  go  out  and  say  something  nice 
to  her. 

Alice.  I  ? 

Captain.  Yes,  for  if  I  should  do  it,  you  would  say  that  I 
was  flirting  with  the  maids. 

Alice.  Mercy,  if  she  should  leave!  Then  I  sliall  have  to 
do  the  work,  as  I  did  the  last  time,  and  my  hands  will  be 
si)oiled. 

Captain.  That  is  not  the  worst  of  it.  But  if  Jenny  leaves, 
Christine  will  also  leave,  and  then  we  shall  never  get  a  servant 
to  the  island  again.  The  mate  on  the  steamer  scares  away 
every  one  that  comes  to  look  for  a  place — and  if  he  should 
miss  his  chance,  then  my  corporals  attend  to  it. 

Alice.  Yes,  your  corporals,  whom  I  have  to  feed  in  my 
kitchen,  and  whom  you  dare  not  show  the  door 

Captain.  No,  for  then  they  would  also  go  when  their  terms 
were  up — and  we  might  have  to  close  up  the  whole  gun  shop ! 

Alice.  It  will  be  our  ruin. 

Captain.  That's  why  the  officers  have  proposed  to  petition 
His  Royal  Majesty  for  special  expense  money. 

Alice.  For  whom .' 

Captain.  For  the  corporals. 

Alice.  [Laiighi7}g]  You  are  crazy! 

Captain.  Yes,  laugh  a  little  for  me.     I  need  it. 

Alice.  I  shall  soon  have  forgotten  how  to  laugh 

Captain.  [Lighting  his  cigar]  That  is  something  one  should 
never  forget — it  is  tedious  enough  anyhow ! 

Alice.  Well,  it  is  not  very  amusing —  Do  you  want  to 
play  any  more  ? 

Captain.  No,  it  tires  me.  [Pause. 

Alice.  Do  you  know,  it  irritates  me  nevertheless  that  my 
cousin,  the  new  Master  of  Quarantine,  makes  his  first  visit  to 
our  enemies. 


156        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Captain,  Well,  what's  the  use  of  talking  about  it? 

Alice.  But  did  you  see  in  the  paper  that  he  was  put  down 
as  rentier?     He  must  have  come  into  some  money  then. 

Captain.  Rentier!  Well,  well — a  rich  relative.  That's 
really  the  first  one  in  this  family. 

Alice.  In  your  family,  yes.  But  among  my  people  many 
have  been  rich. 

Captain.  If  he  has  money,  he's  conceited,  I  suppose,  but 
I'll  hold  him  in  check — and  he  won't  get  a  chance  to  look  at 
my  cards. 

The  telegraph  receiver  begins  to  click. 

Alice.  Who  is  it.^ 

Captain.  [Standing  still]  Keep  quiet,  please. 

Alice.  WVll,  are  you  not  going  to  look 

Captain.  I  can  hear — I  can  hear  what  they  are  saying — 
It's  the  children. 

Goes  over  to  the  instrument  and  sends  an  answer;  the 
receiver  continues  to  click  for  awhile,  and  then  the 
Captain  answers  again. 

Alice.  Well? 

Captain.  Wait  a  little —  [Gives  a  final  click]  The  children 
are  at  the  guard-house  in  the  city.  Judith  is  not  well  again 
and  is  staying  away  from  school. 

Alice.  Again !     What  more  did  they  say  ? 

Captain.  Money,  of  course! 

Alice.  Why  is  Judith  in  such  a  hurry  ?  If  she  didn't  pass 
her  examinations  until  next  year,  it  would  be  just  as  well. 

Captain.  Tell  her,  and  see  what  it  helps. 

Alice.  You  should  tell  her. 

Captain.  How  many  times  have  I  not  done  so  ?  But  chil- 
dren have  their  own  wills,  you  know. 

Alice.  Yes,  in  this  house  at  least.  [The  Captain  yawns] 
So,  you  yawn  in  your  wife's  presence! 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        157 

Cafpain.  Well,  what  can  I  do  ?  Don't  you  notice  how 
day  by  day  we  are  saying  the  same  things  to  each  other? 
When,  just  now,  you  sprang  that  good  old  j)hrase  of  yours, 
"  in  this  house  at  least,"  I  should  have  come  back  with  my  own 
stand-by,  "it  is  not  my  house  only."  But  as  I  have  already 
made  that  reply  some  five  hundred  times,  I  yawned  instead. 
And  my  yawn  could  be  taken  to  mean  either  that  I  was  too 
lazy  to  answer,  or  "right  you  are,  my  angel,"  or  "supposing 
we  quit." 

Alice.  You  are  very  amiable  to-night. 

Captain.  Is  it  not  time  for  supper  soon  ? 

Alice.  Do  you  know  that  the  doctor  ordered  supper  from 
the  city — from  the  Grand  Hotel .'' 

Captain.  No!  Then  they  are  having  ptarmigans — tschk! 
Ptarmigan,  you  know,  is  the  finest  bird  there  is,  but  it's  clear 
barbarism  to  fry  it  in  bacon  grease 

Alice.  Ugh!     Don't  talk  of  food. 

Captain.  Well,  how  about  wines  ?  I  wonder  what  those 
barbarians  are  drinking  with  the  ptarmigans  ? 

Alice.  Do  you  want  me  to  play  for  you  ? 

Captain.  [Sits  dtown  at  the  writing -table]  The  last  resource ! 
Well,  if  you  could  only  leave  your  dirges  and  lamentations 
alone — it  sounds  too  much  like  music  with  a  moral.  And 
I  am  always  adding  within  myself:  "Can't  you  hear  how  un- 
happy I  am!  Meow,  meow!  Can't  you  hear  what  a  horrible 
husband  I  have!  Brum,  brum,  brum!  If  he  would  only  die 
soon!  Beating  of  the  joyful  drum,  flourishes,  the  finale  of  the 
Alcazar  W'altz,  Champagne  Galop ! "  Speaking  of  champagne, 
I  guess  there  are  a  couple  of  bottles  left.  What  would  you  say 
about  bringing  them  up  and  pretending  to  have  company  ? 

Alice.  No,  we  won't,  for  they  are  mine — they  were  given 
to  me  personally. 

Captain.  You  are  so  economical. 


158        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  And  you  are  always  stingy — to  your  wife  at  least! 

Captain.  Then  I  don't  know  what  to  suggest.  Perhaps  I 
might  dance  for  you  ? 

Alice.  No,  thank  you — I  guess  you  are  done  with  dancing. 

Captain.  You  should  bring  some  friend  to  stay  with  you. 

Alice.  Thanks !    You  might  bring  a  friend  to  stay  with  you. 

Captain.  Thanks!  It  has  been  tried,  and  with  mutual 
dissatisfaction.  But  it  was  interesting  in  the  way  of  an  experi- 
ment, for  as  soon  as  a  stranger  entered  the  house,  we  became 
quite  happy — to  begin  with 

Alice.  And  then! 

Captain.  Oh,  don't  talk  of  it! 

There  is  a  hiock  at  the  door  on  the  left. 

Alice.  Who  can  be  coming  so  late  as  this  ? 

Captain.  Jenny  does  not  knock. 

Alice.  Go  and  open  the  door,  and  don't  yell  "come" — 
it  has  a  sound  of  the  workshop. 

Captain.  [Goes  toward  the  door  on  the  left]  You  don't  like 
workshops. 

Alice.  Please,  open! 

Captain.  [Ope7is  the  door  and  receives  a  iiisiting-card  that  is 
held  out  to  him]  It  is  Christine — ■  Has  Jenny  left  ?  [As  the 
public  cannot  hear  the  answer,  to  Alice]  Jenny  has  left. 

Alice.  Then  I  become  servant  girl  again! 

Captain.  And  I  man-of-all-work. 

Alice.  Would  it  not  be  possible  to  get  one  of  your  gunnerg 
to  help  along  in  the  kitchen  } 
.  Captain.  Not  these  days. 

Alice.  But  it  couldn't  be  Jenny  who  sent  in  her  card  ? 

Captain.  [Looks  at  the  card  through  his  spectacles  and  then 
turns  it  over  to  Alice]  You  see  what  it  is — I  cannot. 

Alice.  [Looks  at  the  card]  Curt — it  is  Curt!  Hurry  up  and 
bring  him  in. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        159 

Captain.  [Goes  ovt  to  the  left]  Curt!  Well,  that's  a  pleas- 
ure! 

[Alice  arranges  her  hair  and  seems  to  come  to  life. 

Captain.  [Enters  from  the  left  with  Curt]  Here  he  is,  the 
traitor!     Welcome,  old  man!     Let  me  hug  you! 

Alice.  [Goes  to  Curt]  Welcome  to  my  home,  Curt! 

Curt.  Thank  you — it  is  some  time  since  we  saw  each  other. 

Captain.  How  long .''  Fifteen  years !  And  we  have  grown 
old 

Alice.  Oh,  Curt  has  not  changed,  it  seems  to  me. 

Captain.  Sit  down,  sit  down!  And  first  of  all — the  pro- 
gramme.    Have  you  any  engagement  for  to-night  .-* 

Curt.  I  am  invited  to  the  doctor's,  but  I  have  not  promised 
to  go. 

Alice.  Then  you  will  stay  with  your  relatives. 

Curt.  That  would  seem  the  natural  thing,  but  the  doctor 
is  my  superior,  and  I  might  have  trouble  afterward. 

Captain.  What  kind  of  talk  is  that  .5*  I  have  never  been 
afraid  of  my  superiors 

Curt.  Fear  or  no  fear,  the  trouble  cannot  be  escaped. 

Captain.  On  this  island  I  am  master.  Keep  behind  my 
back,  and  nobody  will  dare  to  touch  you. 

Alice.  Oh,  be  quiet,  Edgar!  [Takes  Curt  hy  the  hand] 
Leaving  both  masters  and  superiors  aside,  you  must  stay  with 
us.     That  wiU  be  found  both  natural  and  proper. 

Curt.  Well,  then — especially  as  I  feel  welcome  here. 

Captain.  Why  should  you  not  be  welcome }  There  is 
nothing  between  us —  [Curt  tries  vainly  to  hide  a  sense  of  dis- 
pleasure] What  could  there  be  ?  You  were  a  little  careless  as 
a  young  man,  but  I  have  forgotten  all  about  it.  I  don't  let 
things  rankle. 

Alice  looks  annoyed.     All  three  sit  down  at  the  sewing- 
tabu. 


160        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  Well,  you  have  strayed  far  and  wide  in  the  world  ? 

Curt.  Yes,  and  now  I  have  found  a  harbour  with  you 

Captain.  Whom  you  married  off  twenty-five  years  ago. 

Curt.  It  was  not  quite  that  way,  but  it  doesn't  matter.  It 
is  pleasing  to  see  that  you  have  stuck  together  for  twenty-five 
years. 

Captain.  Well,  we  have  borne  with  it.  Now  and  then  it  has 
been  so-so,  but,  as  you  say,  we  have  stuck  together.  And 
Alice  has  had  nothing  to  complain  of.  There  has  been  plenty 
of  everything — heaps  of  money.  Perhaps  you  don't  know 
that  I  am  a  celebrated  author — an  author  of  text-books 

Curt.  Yes,  I  recall  that,  when  we  parted,  you  had  just 
published  a  volume  on  rifle  practice  that  was  selling  well.  Is 
it  still  used  in  the  military  schools  ? 

Captain.  It  is  still  in  evidence,  and  it  holds  its  place  as 
number  one,  though  they  have  tried  to  substitute  a  worse  one 
— which  is  being  used  now,  but  which  is  totally  worthless. 

[Painful  silence. 

Curt.  You  have  been  travelling  abroad,  I  have  heard. 

Alice.  W^e  have  been  down  to  Copenhagen  five  times — 
think  of  it  ? 

Captain.  Well,  you  see,  when  I  took  Alice  away  from  the 
stage 

Alice.  Oh,  you  took  me  ? 

Captain.  Yes,  I  took  you  as  a  wife  should  be  taken 

Alice.  How  brave  you  have  grown ! 

Captain.  But  as  it  was  held  up  against  me  afterward  that 
I  had  spoiled  her  brilliant  career — hm! — I  had  to  make  up  for 
it  by  promising  to  take  my  wife  to  Copenhagen — and  this  I 
have  kept — fully!  Five  times  we  have  been  there.  Five 
[holding  ?/p  the  five  fingers  of  the  left  hand]  Have  you  been 
in  Copenhagen  ? 

Curt.  [Smiling]  No,  I  have  mostly  been  in  America. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        161 

Captain.  America  ?     Isn't  that  a  rotten  sort  of  a  country  ? 

Curt.  [Uwpleasantly  impressed]  It  is  not  Copenhagen. 

Alice.  Have  you — heard  anything — from  your  children? 

Curt.  No. 

Alice.  I  hope  you  pardon  me — but  was  it  not  rather  in- 
considerate to  leave  them  like  that 

Curt.  I  didn't  leave  them,  but  the  court  gave  them  to  the 
mother. 

Captain.  Don't  let  us  tsdk  of  that  now.  I  for  my  part  think 
it  was  lucky  for  you  to  get  out  of  that  mess. 

Curt.  [To Alice]  How  are  your  children? 

Alice.  Well,  thank  you.  They  are  at  school  in  the  city 
and  will  soon  be  grown  up. 

Captain.  Yes,  they're  splendid  kids,  and  the  boy  has  a 
brilliant  head — brilliant!  He  is  going  to  join  the  General 
Staff 

Alice.  If  they  accept  him ! 

Captain.  Him  ?  Who  has  the  making  of  a  War  Minister 
in  him! 

Curt.  From  one  thing  to  another.  There  is  to  be  a  quar- 
antine station  here — against  plague,  cholera,  and  that  sort  of 
thing.  And  the  doctor  will  be  my  superior,  as  you  know — 
what  sort  of  man  is  he  ? 

Captain.  Man  ?     He  is  no  man!    He's  an  ignorant  rascal! 

Curt.  [To  Alice]  That  is  very  unpleasant  for  me. 

Alice.  Oh,  it  is  not  quite  as  bad  as  Edgar  makes  it  out, 
but  I  must  admit  that  I  have  small  sympathy  for  the  man ■ 

Captain.  A  rascal,  that's  what  he  is.  And  that's  what  the 
others  are,  too — the  Collector  of  Customs,  the  Postmaster, 
the  telephone  girl,  the  druggist,  the  pilot — what  is  it  they  call 
him  now  ? — the  Pilot  Master — rascals  one  and  all — and  that's 
why  I  don't  associate  with  them. 

Curt.  Are  you  on  bad  terms  with  all  of  them  ? 


162        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Captain.  Every  one! 

Alice.  Yes,  it  is  true  that  intercourse  with  those  people  is 
out  of  the  question. 

Captain.  It  is  as  if  all  the  tyrants  of  the  country  had  been 
sent  to  this  island  for  safe-keeping. 

Alice.  [rroiiicaUy]  Exactly! 

Captain.  [Good-naturedly]  Hm!  Is  that  meant  for  me  ?  I 
am  no  tyrant — not  in  my  own  house  at  least. 

Alice.  You  know  better! 

Captain.  [To  Curt]  Don't  believe  her!  I  am  a  very  rea- 
sonable husband,  and  the  old  lady  is  the  best  wife  in  the 
world. 

Alice.  Would  you  like  something  to  drink.  Curt  ? 

Curt.  No,  thank  you,  not  now. 

Captain.  Have  you  turned 


Curt.  A  little  moderate  only 

Captain.  Is  that  American  ? 

Curt.  Yes. 

Captain.  No  moderation  for  me,  or  I  don't  care  at  all.  A 
man  should  stand  his  liquor. 

Curt.  Returning  to  our  neighbours  on  the  island — my  posi- 
tion will  put  me  in  touch  with  all  of  them — and  it  is  not  easy 
to  steer  clear  of  everything,  for  no  matter  how  little  you  care 
to  get  mixed  up  in  other  people's  intrigues,  you  are  drawn  into 
them  just  the  same. 

Alice.  You  had  better  take  up  with  them — in  the  end  you 
will  return  to  us,  for  here  you  find  your  true  friends. 

Curt.  Is  it  not  dreadful  to  be  alone  among  a  lot  of  enemies 
as  you  are  ? 

Alice.  It  is  not  pleasant. 

Captain.  It  isn't  dreadful  at  all.  I  have  never  had  any- 
thing but  enemies  all  my  life,  and  they  have  helped  me  on 
instead  of  doing  me  harm.     And  when  my  time  to  die  comes. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        163 

I  may  say  that  I  owe  nothing  to  anybody,  and  that  I  have 
never  got  a  thing  for  nothing.     Every  particle  of  what  I  own 
.  I  have  had  to  fight  for. 

Alice.  Yes,  Edgar's  path  has  not  been  strewn  with 
roses 

Captain.  No,  with  thorns  and  stones — pieces  of  flint — but 
a  man's  own  strength:  do  you  know  what  tliat  means  ? 

Curt.  [Simply]  Yes,  I  learned  to  recognise  its  insufficiency 
about  ten  years  ago. 

Captain.  Then  you  are  no  good! 

Alice.  [To  the  Captain]  Edgar! 

Captain.  He  is  no  good,  I  say,  if  he  does  not  have  the 
strength  within  himself.  Of  course  it  is  true  that  when  the 
mechanism  goes  to  pieces  there  is  nothing  left  but  a  barrow- 
ful  to  chuck  out  on  the  garden  beds;  but  as  long  as  the 
mechanism  holds  together  the  thing  to  do  is  to  kick  and  fight, 
with  hands  and  feet,  until  there  is  nothing  left.  That  is  my 
philosophy. 

Curt.  [Smiling]  It  is  fun  to  listen  to  you. 

Captain.  But  you  don't  think  it's  true  ? 

Curt.  No,  I  don't. 

Captain.  But  true  it  is,  for  all  that. 

During  the  preceding  scene  the  wind  has  begun  to  blow 
hard,  and  now  one  of  the  big  doors  is  closed  with  a  bang. 

Captain.  [Rising]  It's  blowing.     I  could  just  feel  it  coming. 
Goes  back  and  closes  both  doors.     Knocks  on  the  ba- 
rometer. 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  You  will  stay  for  supper? 

Curt.  Thank  you. 

Alice.  But  it  will  be  very  simple,  as  our  housemaid  has  just 
left  us. 

Curt.  Oh,  it  will  do  for  me,  I  am  sure. 
Alice.  You  ask  for  so  little,  dear  Curt. 


164        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Captain.  [At  the  barometer]  If  you  could  only  see  how  the 
mercury  is  dropping!     Oh,  I  felt  it  coming! 

Alice.  [Secretly  to  Curt]  He  is  nervous. 

Captain.  \Vc  ought  to  have  supper  soon. 

Alice.  [Rising]  I  am  going  to  see  about  it  now.  You  can 
sit  here  and  philosophise— [secretly  to  Curt],  but  don't  con- 
tradict him,  for  then  he  gets  into  bad  humour.  And  don't  ask 
him  why  he  was  not  made  a  major. 

[Curt  nods  assent. 
[Alice  goes  toward  the  right. 

Captain.  See  that  we  get  something  nice  now,  old  lady! 

Alice.  You  give  me  money,  and  you'll  get  what  you  want. 

Captain.  Always  money! 

[Alice  goes  out. 

Captain.  [To  Curt]  Money,  money,  money!  All  day 
long  I  have  to  stand  ready  with  the  purse,  until  at  last  I  have 
come  to  feel  as  if  I  myself  were  nothing  but  a  purse.  Are 
you  famihar  with  that  kind  of  thing  ? 

Curt.  Oh,  yes — with  the  difference  that  I  took  myself  for 
a  pocket-book. 

Captain.  Ha-ha!  So  you  know  the  flavour  of  the  brand! 
Oh,  the  ladies !     Ha-ha !     And  you  had  one  of  the  proper  kind ! 

Curt.  [Patiently]  Let  that  be  buried  now. 

Captain.  She  was  a  jewel !  Then  I  have  after  all — in  spite 
of  everything — one  that's  pretty  decent.  For  she  is  straight, 
in  spite  of  everything. 

Curt.  [Smiling  good-humouredly]  In  spite  of  everything. 

Captain.  Don't  you  laugh! 

Curt.  [As before]  In  spite  of  everything! 

Captain.  Yes,  she  has  been  a  faithful  mate,  a  splendid 
mother — excellent — but  [with  a  glance  at  the  door  on  the  right] 
she  has  a  devilish  temper.  Do  you  know,  there  have  been 
moments  when  I  cursed  you  for  saddling  me  with  her. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        165 

Curt.  [Good-naturedly]  But  I  didn't.     Listen,  man 


Captain.  Yah,  yah,  yah!  You  talk  nonsense  and  forget 
things  that  are  not  pleasant  to  remember.  Don't  take  it 
badly,  please —  I  am  accustomed  to  command  and  raise 
Cain,  you  see,  but  you  know  me,  and  don't  get  angry! 

Curt.  Not  at  all.  But  I  have  not  provided  you  with  a 
wife — on  the  contrary. 

Captain.  [Withoid  letting  his  floiv  of  words  be  checked] 
Don't  you  think  life  is  queer  anyhow  ? 

Curt.  I  suppose  so. 

Captain.  And  to  grow  old — it  is  no  fun,  but  it  is  interesting. 
Well,  my  age  is  nothing  to  speak  of,  but  it  does  begin  to  make 
itself  felt.  All  your  friends  die  off,  and  then  you  become  so 
lonely. 

Curt.  Lucky  the  man  who  can  grow  old  in  company  with 
a  wife. 

Captain.  Lucky  ?  Well,  it  is  luck,  for  the  children  go  their 
way,  too.     You  ought  not  to  have  left  yours. 

Curt.  Well,  I  didn't.     They  were  taken  away  from  me 

Captain.  Don't  get  mad  now,  because  I  tell  you 

Curt.  But  it  was  not  so. 

Captain.  Well,  whichever  way  it  was,  it  has  now  become 
forgotten — but  you  are  alone! 

Curt.  You  get  accustomed  to  everything. 

Captain.  Do  you — is  it  possible  to  get  accustomed — to 
being  quite  alone  also  ? 

Curt.  Here  am  I! 

Captain.  What  have  you  been  doing  these  fifteen  years  ? 

Curt.  What  a  question !     These  fifteen  years ! 

Captain.  They  say  you  have  got  hold  of  money  and  grown 
rich. 

Curt.  I  can  hardly  be  called  rich 

Captain.  I  am  not  going  to  ask  for  a  loan. 


166        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Curt.  If  you  were,  you  would  find  me  ready. 

Captain.  Many  thanks,  but  I  have  my  bank  account.  You 
see  [with  a  glance  toward  the  door  on  the  right],  nothing  must 
be  lacking  in  this  house;  and  the  day  I  had  no  more  money — 
she  would  leave  me! 

Curt.  Oh,  no! 

Captain.  No?  Well,  I  know  better.  Think  of  it,  she 
makes  a  point  of  asking  me  when  I  happen  to  be  short,  just 
for  the  pleasure  of  showing  me  that  I  am  not  supporting  my 
family. 

Curt.  But  I  heard  you  say  that  you  have  a  large  income. 

Captain.  Of  course,  I  have  a  large  income— but  it  is  not 
enough. 

Curt.  Then  it  is  not  large,  as  such  things  are  reckoned ■ 

Captain.  Life  is  queer,  and  we  as  well! 

The  telegraph  receiver  begins  to  click. 

Curt.  What  is  that  ? 

Captain.  Nothing  but  a  time  correction. 

Curt.  Have  you  no  telephone  ? 

Captain.  Yes,  in  the  kitchen.  But  we  use  the  telegraph 
because  the  girls  at  the  central  report  everything  we  say. 

Curt.  Social  conditions  out  here  by  the  sea  must  be  fright- 
ful! 

Captain.  They  are  simply  horrible !  But  all  life  is  horrible. 
And  you,  who  believe  in  a  sequel,  do  you  think  there  will  be 
any  peace  further  on  ? 

Curt.  I  presume  there  will  be  storms  and  battles  there  also. 

Captain.  There  also — if  there  be  any  "there"!  I  prefer 
annihilation ! 

Curt.  Are  you  sure  that  annihilation  will  come  without 
pain  ? 

Captain.  I  am  going  to  die  all  of  a  sudden,  without  pain 

Curt.  So  you  know  that  ? 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH         1G7 

Captain.  Yes,  I  know  it. 

Curt.  You  don't  appear  satisfied  with  your  life  ? 

Captain.  [Sighing]  Satisfied  ?  The  day  I  could  die,  I 
should  be  satisfied. 

Curt.  [Rising]  That  you  don't  know!  But  tell  me:  what 
is  going  on  in  this  house  ?  What  is  happening  here  ?  There 
is  a  smell  as  of  poisonous  wall-paper,  and  one  feels  sick  the 
moment  one  enters.  I  should  prefer  to  get  away  from  here, 
had  I  not  promised  Alice  to  stay.  There  are  dead  bodies 
beneath  the  flooring,  and  the  place  is  so  filled  with  hatred  that 
one  can  hardly  breathe.  [The  Captain  sinks  together  and  sits 
staring  into  vacancy]  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  Edgar! 
[The  Captain  does  not  move.  Slaps  the  Captain  on  the 
shoulder]  Edgar! 

Captain.  [Recovering  consciousness]  Did  you  say  anything  ? 
[Looks  arou7id]  I  thought  it  was — Alice ! —  Oh,  is  that  you  ? — ■ 
Say —  [Relapses  into  apathy. 

Curt.  This  is  horrible!  [Goes  over  to  the  door  on  the  right 
and  opens  it]  Alice! 

Alice.  [Enters,  wearing  a  kitchen  apron]  What  is  it? 

Curt.  I  don't  know.     Look  at  him. 

Alice.  [Calmly]  He  goes  off  like  that  at  times —  I'll  play 
and  then  he  will  wake  up. 

Curt.  No,  don't!  Not  that  way!  Leave  it  to  me — 
Does  he  hear  ?    Or  see  ? 

Alice.  Just  now  he  neither  hears  nor  sees. 

Curt.  And  you  can  speak  of  that  with  such  calm  ?  Alice, 
what  is  going  on  in  this  house  ? 

Alice.  Ask  him  there. 

Curt.  Him  there  ?     But  he  is  your  husband ! 

Alice.  A  stranger  to  me — as  strange  as  he  was  twenty-five 
years  ago.  I  know  nothing  at  all  about  that  man — nothing 
but 


168        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Curt.  Stop !    He  may  overhear  you. 

Alice.  Now  he  cannot  hear  anything. 

A  trumpet  siqnal  is  sounded  outside. 

Captain.  [Leafs  to  his  feet  and  grabs  sabre  and  cap]  Par- 
don me.     I  have  to  inspect  the  sentries. 

[Goes  out  through  the  door  in  the  background. 

Curt.  Is  he  ill  ? 

Alice.  I  don't  know. 

Curt.  Has  he  lost  his  reason  ? 

Alice.  I  don't  know. 

Curt.  Does  he  drink  ? 

Alice.  He  boasts  more  of  it  than  he  really  drinks. 

Curt.  Sit  down  and  talk — but  calmly  and  truthfully. 

Alice.  [Sitting  doivn]  What  am  I  to  talk  about  ?  That  I 
have  spent  a  lifetime  in  this  tower,  locked  up,  guarded  by  a 
man  whom  I  have  always  hated,  and  whom  I  now  hate  so 
beyond  all  bounds  that  the  day  he  died  I  should  be  laughing 
until  the  air  shook. 

Curt.  Why  have  you  not  parted  ? 

Alice.  You  may  well  ask!  While  still  engaged  we  parted 
twice;  since  then  we  have  been  trying  to  part  every  single  day 
— but  we  are  chained  together  and  cannot  break  away.  Once 
we  were  separated — within  the  same  house — for  five  whole 
years.  Now  nothing  but  death  can  part  us.  This  we  know, 
and  for  that  reason  we  are  waiting  for  him  as  for  a  liberator. 

Curt.  Why  are  you  so  lonely  ? 

Alice.  Because  he  isolates  me.  First  he  "exterminated" 
all  my  brothers  and  sisters  from  our  home — he  speaks  of  it 
himself  as  "extermination" — and  then  my  girl  friends  and 
everybody  else. 

Curt.  But  his  relatives  ?   He  has  not  "exterminated"  them  ? 

Alice.  Yes,  for  they  came  near  taking  my  life,  after  having 
taken  my  honour  and  good  name.     Finally  I  became  forced 


THE    DANCE    OF    DEATH        109 

to  keep  up  my  connection  with  the  world  and  with  other  human 
beings  by  means  of  that  telegraph — for  the  telephone  was 
watched  by  the  operators.  I  have  taught  myself  telegraphy, 
and  he  doesn't  know  it.  You  must  not  tell  him,  for  then  he 
would  kill  me. 

Curt.  Frightful!  Frightful! —  But  why  does  he  hold  me 
responsible  for  your  marriage  ?  Let  me  tell  you  now  how 
it  was.  Edgar  was  my  childhood  friend.  When  he  saw 
you  he  fell  in  love  at  once.  He  came  to  me  and  asked  me  to 
plead  his  cause.  I  said  no  at  once — and,  my  dear  Alice,  I 
knew  your  tyrannical  and  cruel  temperament.  For  that  rea- 
son I  warned  him — and  when  he  persisted,  I  sent  him  to  get 
your  brother  for  his  spokesman. 

Alice.  I  believe  what  you  say.  But  he  has  been  deceiving 
himself  all  these  years,  so  that  now  you  can  never  get  him  to 
believe  anything  else. 

Curt.  Well,  let  him  put  the  blame  on  me  if  that  can  relieve 
his  sufferings. 

Alice.  But  that  is  too  much 

Curt.  I  am  used  to  it.     But  what  does  hurt  me  is  his 

unjust  charge  that  I  have  deserted  my  children 

Alice.  That's  the  manner  of  man  he  is.  He  says  what  suits 
him,  and  then  he  believes  it.  But  he  seems  to  be  fond  of  you, 
principally  because  you  don't  contradict  him.  Try  not  to 
grow  tired  of  us  now.  I  believe  you  have  come  in  what  was 
to  us  a  fortunate  moment;  I  think  it  was  even  providential — 
Curt,  you  must  not  grow  tired  of  us,  for  we  are  undoubtedly 
the  most  unhappy  creatures  in  the  whole  world ! 

[She  weeps. 
Curt.  I  have  seen  one  marriage  at  close  quarters,  and  it 
was  dreadful — but  this  is  almost  worse! 
Alice.  Do  you  think  so  ? 
Curt.  Yes. 


170        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  Whose  fault  is  it  ? 

Curt.  The  moment  you  quit  asking  whose  fault  it  is,  Alice, 
you  will  feel  a  relief.  Try  to  regard  it  as  a  fact,  a  trial  that  has 
to  be  borne 

Alice.  I  cannot  do  it!  It  is  too  much!  [Rising]  It  is  be- 
yond help! 

Curt.  I  pity  both  of  you! —  Do  you  know  why  you  are 
hating  each  other  ? 

Alice.  No,  it  is  the  most  unreasoning  hatred,  without 
cause,  without  purpose,  but  also  without  end.  And  can  you 
imagine  why  he  is  principally  afraid  of  death  ?  He  fears  that 
I  may  marry  again. 

Curt.  Then  he  loves  you. 

Alice.  Probably.  But  that  does  not  prevent  him  from 
hating  me. 

Curt.  [As  if  to  himself]  It  is  called  love-hatred,  and  it  hails 
from  the  pit! —     Does  he  like  you  to  play  for  him  ? 

Alice.  Yes,  but  only  horrid  melodies — for  instance,  that 
awful  "The  Entry  of  the  Boyars."  When  he  hears  it  he 
loses  his  head  and  wants  to  dance. 

Curt.  Does  he  dance  ? 

Alice.  Oh,  he  is  very  funny  at  times. 

Curt.  One  thing — pardon  me  for  asking.  Where  are  the 
children .'' 

Alice.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  that  two  of  them  are  dead  ? 

Curt.  So  you  have  had  that  to  face  also  ? 

Alice.  What  is  there  I  have  not  faced  ? 

Curt.  But  the  other  two  ? 

Alice.  In  the  city.  They  couldn't  stay  at  home.  For  he 
set  them  against  me. 

Curt.  And  you  set  them  against  him  ? 

Alice.  Of  course.  And  then  parties  were  formed,  votes 
bought,  bribes  given — and  in  order  not  to  spoil  the  children 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        171 

completely  we  had  to  part  from  them.  What  should  have 
been  the  uniting  link  became  the  seed  of  dissension;  what  is 
held  the  blessing  of  the  home  turned  into  a  curse — well,  I  be- 
lieve sometimes  that  we  belong  to  a  cursed  race! 

Curt.  Yes,  is  it  not  so — ever  since  the  Fall  ? 

Alice.  [With  a  venomous  glance  and  sharp  voice]  What  fall  ? 

Curt.  That  of  our  first  parents. 

Alice.  Oh,  I  thought  you  meant  something  else! 

[Embarrassed  silence. 

Alice.  [With  folded  hands]  Curt,  my  kinsman,  my  child- 
hood friend — I  have  not  always  acted  toward  you  as  I  should. 
But  now  I  am  being  punished,  and  you  are  having  your  revenge. 

Curt.  No  revenge!     Nothing  of  that  kind  here!     Hush! 

Alice.  Do  you  recall  one  Sunday  while  you  were  engaged — 
and  I  had  invited  you  for  dinner 

Curt.  Never  mind ! 

Alice.  I  must  speak !  Have  pity  on  me !  When  you  came 
to  dinner,  we  had  gone  away,  and  you  had  to  leave  again. 

Curt.  You  had  received  an  invitation  yourselves — what  is 
that  to  speak  of! 

Alice.  Curt,  when  to-day,  a  little  while  ago,  I  asked  you  to 
stay  for  supper,  I  thought  we  had  something  left  in  the  pantry. 
[Hiding  her  face  in  her  hands]  And  there  is  not  a  thing,  not 
even  a  piece  of  bread 

Curt.  [Weeping]  Alice — poor  Alice! 

Alice.  But  when  he  comes  home  and  wants  something  to 
eat,  and  there  is  nothing — then  he  gets  angry.  You  have 
never  seen  him  angry!     O,  God,  what  humiliation! 

Curt.  Will  you  not  let  me  go  out  and  arrange  for  some- 
thing ? 

Alice.  There  is  nothing  to  be  had  on  this  island. 

Curt.  Not  for  my  sake,  but  for  his  and  yours — let  me  think 
up  something — something.     We  must  make  the  whole  thing 


172        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

seem  laughalile  when  he  comes.  I'll  propose  that  we  have 
a  drink,  and  in  the  meantime  I'll  think  of  something.  Put 
him  in  good  humour;  play  for  him,  any  old  nonsense.  Sit 
down  at  the  j^iano  and  make  yourself  ready 

Alice.  Look  at  my  hands — are  they  fit  to  play  with.'  I 
have  to  wipe  glasses  and  polish  brass,  sweep  floors,  and  make 
fires 

Curt.  But  vou  have  two  servants  ? 

Alice.  So  we  have  to  pretend  because  he  is  an  oflScer — 
but  the  servants  are  leaving  us  all  the  time,  so  that  often  we 
have  none  at  all — most  of  the  time,  in  fact.  How  am  I  to 
get  out  of  this — this  about  supper  ?  Oh,  if  only  fire  would 
break  out  in  this  house! 

Curt.  Don't,  Ahce,  don't! 

Alice.  If  the  sea  would  rise  and  take  us  away! 

Curt.  No,  no,  no,  I  cannot  listen  to  you ! 

Alice.  What  will  he  say,  what  will  he  say —  Don't  go. 
Curt,  don't  go  away  from  me! 

Curt.  No,  dear  Alice —     I  shall  not  go. 

Alice.  Yes,  but  when  you  are  gone 

Curt.  Has  he  ever  laid  hands  on  you  ? 

Alice.  On  me  ?  Oh,  no,  for  he  knew  that  then  I  should 
have  left  him.     One  has  to  preserve  some  pride. 

From  without  is  heard:  "  Who  goes  there  ? —     Friend." 

Curt.  [Risi^ig]  Is  he  coming  ? 

Alice.  [Frightened]  Yes,  that's  he.  [Pause. 

Curt.  What  in  the  world  are  we  to  do  ? 

Alice.  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know! 

Captain.  [Enters  from  the  background,  cheerful]  There! 
Leisure  now!  Well,  has  she  had  time  to  make  her  com- 
p]air'*'=  ?     Is  she  not  unhappy — hey  ? 

Curt.  How's  the  weather  outside  ?  - 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        173 

Captain.  Half  storm —  [Facet iousb/;  openinr/  one  of  the 
doors  (iiai-\  Sir  Bluebeard  with  the  niairleii  in  the  tower;  and 
outside  stands  the  sentry  with  drawn  sabre  to  guard  the  pretty 
maiden — and  then  come  the  brothers,  but  the  sentry  is  there. 
Look  at  him.  Hip — hip!  That's  a  fine  sentry.  Look  at  him. 
Mdlbrongh  s'en  va-t-en  guerre!  Let  us  dance  the  sword 
dance!     Curt  ought  to  see  it! 

CtjRT.  No,  let  us  have  "The  Entry  of  the  Boyars"  instead! 
Captain.  Oh,  you  know  that  one,  do  you  ? —     Alice  in  the 
kitchen  apron,  come  and  play.     Come,  I  tell  you! 

[Alice  goes  reluctantly  to  the  piano. 
Captain.  [Pinching  her  arm]  Now  you  have  been  black- 
guarding me! 
Alice.  I  ? 

Curt  tu7-ns  away  from  them. 
Alice  flays  "  The  Entry  of  the  Boyars." 
The  Captain  performs  some  kind  of  Hungarian  dance 
step  behind  the  writing -table  so  that  his  spurs  are  set 
jingling.     Then  he  sinks  down  on  the  floor  without 
being  noticed  by  Curt  and  Alice,  and  the  latter  goes 
on  playing  the  piece  to  the  end. 
Alice.  \}Vithout  turning  around]  Shall  we  have  it  again  ? 
[Silence.     Turns  around  and  becomes  aivare  of  the  Captain, 
xvho  is  lying  unconscious  on  the  floor  in  such  a  way  that  he  is 
hidden  from  the  public  by  the  writing-table]  Lord  Jesus ! 

She  stands  still,  with  arms  crossed  over  her  breast,  and 
gives  vent  to  a  sigh  as  of  gratitude  and  relief. 
Curt,  [Turns  aroxind;  hurries  over  to  the  Captain]  What 
is  it  ?     What  is  it  ? 

Alice.  [In  a  high  state  of  tension]  Is  he  dead  ? 

Curt.  I  don't  know.     Come  and  help  me. 

Alice.  [Remains  still]  I  cannot  touch  him — is  he  dead  ? 


174        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Curt.  No — he  lives. 
Alice  sighs. 

Curt  helps  the  Captain  to  his  feet  and  -places  him  in  a 
chair. 

Captain.  What  was  it .?  [Silence]  What  was  it  ? 

Curt.  You  fell  down. 

Captain.  Did  anything  happen  ? 

Curt.  You  fell  on  the  floor.     What  is  the  matter  with  you  "^ 

Captain.  With  me?     Nothing  at  all.     I  don't  know  of 
anything.     What  are  you  staring  at  me  for .? 

Curt.  You  are  ill. 

Captain.  What  nonsense  is  that?     You  go  on   playing, 
Alice —     Oh,  now  it's  back  again! 

[Pids  both  hands  up  to  his  head. 

Alice.  Can't  you  see  that  you  are  ill  ? 

Captain.  Don't  shriek!     It  is  only  a  fainting  spell. 

Curt.  We  must  call  a  doctor —     I'll  use  your  telephone 

Captain.  I  don't  want  any  doctor. 

Curt.  You  must!     We  have  to  call  him  for  our  own  sake 
— otherwise  we  shall  be  held  responsible 

Captain.  I'll  show  him  the  door  if  he  comes  here.     I'll 
shoot  him.     Oh,  now  it's  there  again ! 

\Tahcs  hold  of  his  head. 

Curt.  {Goes  toward  the  door  on  the  right]  Now  I  am  going 
to  telephone!  [Goes  out. 

[Alice  takes  off  her  apron. 

Captain.  Will  you  give  me  a  glass  of  water  ? 

Alice.  I  suppose  I  have  to !      [Gives  him  a  glass  of  umter. 

Captain.  How  amiable! 

Alice.  Are  you  ill  ? 

Captain.  Please  pardon  me  for  not  being  well. 

Alice.  Will  you  take  care  of  yourself  then  ? 

Captain.  You  won't  do  it,  I  suppose  ? 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        175 

Alice.  No,  of  that  you  may  be  sure! 

Captain.  The  hour  is  come  for  which  you  have  been  wait- 
ing so  long. 

Alice.  The  hour  you  believed  would  never  come. 

Captain.  Don't  be  angry  with  me ! 

Curt.  [Enters  from  the  right]  Oh,  it's  too  bad 

Alice.  What  did  he  say  ? 

Curt.  He  rang  off  without  a  word. 

Alice.  [To  the  Captain]  There  is  the  result  of  your  limit- 
less arrogance! 

Captain.  I  think  I  am  growing  worse —  Try  to  get  a 
doctor  from  the  city. 

Alice.  [Goes  to  the  telegraph  instrument]  We  shall  have  to 
use  the  telegraph  then. 

Captain.  [Risi7jg  half-iraij  from  the  chair;  startled]  Do 
you — know — how  to  use  it  ? 

Alice.  [JVorking  the  key]  Yes,  I  do. 

Captain.  So-o!  Well,  go  on  then — But  isn't  she  treach- 
erous! [To  Curt]  Come  over  here  and  sit  by  me.  [Curt 
sits  down  beside  the  Captain]  Take  my  hand.  I  sit  here  and 
fall — can  you  make  it  out  ?  Down  something — such  a  queer 
feeling. 

Curt.  Have  you  had  any  attack  like  this  before  ? 

Captain.  Never 

Curt.  While  you  are  waiting  for  an  answer  from  the  city, 
I'll  go  over  to  the  doctor  and  have  a  talk  with  him.  Has  he 
attended  you  before  ? 

Captain.  He  has. 

Curt.  Then  he  knows  your  case.     [Goes  toward  the  left. 

Alice.  There  will  be  an  answer  shortly.  It  is  very  kind  of 
you.  Curt.     But  come  back  soon. 

Curt.  As  soon  as  I  can.  [Goes  out. 

Captain.  Curt  is  kind !    And  how  he  has  changed. 


176        THE  DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  Yes,  and  for  the  better.  It  is  too  bad,  however, 
that  he  must  be  dragged  into  our  misery  just  now. 

Captain.  But  good  for  us —  I  wonder  just  how  he  stands. 
Did  you  notice  that  he  wouldn't  speak  of  his  own  affairs .' 

Alice.  I  did  notice  it,  but  then  I  don't  think  anybody 
asked  him. 

Captain.  Think,  what  a  hfe!  And  ours!  I  wonder  if  it  is 
the  same  for  all  people  ? 

Alice.  Perhaps,  although  they  don't  speak  of  it  as  we  do. 

Captain.  At  times  I  have  thought  that  misery  draws  mis- 
ery, and  that  those  who  are  happy  shun  the  unhappy.  That 
is  the  reason  why  we  see  nothing  but  misery. 

Alice.  Have  you  known  anybody  who  was  happy  ? 

Captain.  Let  me  see!    No —    Yes — the  Ekmarks. 

Alice.  You  don't  mean  it!  She  had  to  have  an  operation 
last  year 

Captain.  That's  right.  Well,  then  I  don't  know — yes, 
the  Von  Kraffts. 

Alice.  Yes,  the  whole  family  lived  an  idyllic  life,  well 
off,  respected  by  everybody,  nice  children,  good  marriages — 
right  along  until  they  were  fifty.  Then  that  cousin  of  theirs 
committed  a  crime  that  led  to  a  prison  term  and  all  sorts 
of  after-effects.  And  that  was  the  end  of  their  peace.  The 
family  name  was  dragged  in  the  mud  by  all  the  newspapers. 
The  Krafft  murder  case  made  it  impossible  for  the  family 
to  appear  an^'where,  after  having  been  so  much  thought  of. 
The  children  had  to  be  taken  out  of  school.     Oh,  heavens! 

Captain.  I  wonder  what  my  trouble  is  ? 

Alice.  What  do  you  think  ? 

Captain.  Heart  or  head.  It  is  as  if  the  soul  wanted  to  fly 
off  and  turn  into  smoke. 

Alice.  Have  you  any  appetite  ? 

Captain.  Yes,  how  about  the  supper  ? 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        177 

Alice.  [Crosses  the  stage,  disturbed]  I'll  ask  Jenny. 

Captain.  Why,  she's  gone! 

Alice.  Yes,  yes,  yes! 

Captain.  Ring  for  Christine  so  that  I  can  get  some  fresh 
water. 

Alice.  [Rings]  I  wonder —  [Rings  again]  She  doesn't  hear. 

Captain.  Go  and  look — just  think,  if  she  should  have  left 
also ! 

Alice.  [Goes  over  to  the  door  on  the  left  and  opens  it]  What 
is  this  ?     Her  trunk  is  in  the  hallway — packed. 

Captain.  Then  she  has  gone. 

Alice.  This  is  hell! 

Begins  to  cry,  falls  on  her  knees,  and  puts  her  head  on  a 
chair,  sobbing. 

Captain.  And  everything  at  once!  And  then  Curt  had  to 
turn  up  just  in  time  to  get  a  look  into  this  mess  of  ours !  If  there 
be  any  further  humiliation  in  store,  let  it  come  this  moment! 

Alice.  Do  you  know  what  I  suspect.''  Curt  went  away 
and  will  not  come  back. 

Captain.  I  believe  it  of  him. 

Alice.  Yes,  we  are  cursed 

Captain.  What  are  you  talking  of  ? 

Alice.  Don't  you  see  how  everybody  shuns  us  ? 

Captain.  I  don't  mind !  [The  telegraph  receiver  clicks-]  There 
is  the  answer.  Hush,  I  can  hear  it —  Nobody  can  spare  the 
time.     Evasions!     The  rabble! 

Alice.  That's  what  you  get  because  you  have  despised 
your  physicians — and  failed  to  pay  them. 

Captain.  That  is  not  so ! 

Alice.  Even  when  you  could,  you  didn't  care  to  pay  their 
bills  because  you  looked  down  upon  their  work,  just  as  you 
have  looked  down  upon  mine  and  everybody  else's.  They 
don't  want  to  come.     And  the  telephone  is  cut  off  because  you 


178        THE  DANCE   OF   DEATH 

didn't  think  that  good  for  anything  either.  Nothing  is  good 
for  anything  but  your  rifles  and  guns! 

Captain.  Don't  stand  there  and  talk  nonsense 

Alice.  Everything  comes  back. 

Captain.  What  sort  of  superstition  is  that?  Talk  for 
old  women! 

Alice.  You  will  see !  Do  you  know  that  we  owe  Christine 
six  montlis'  wages .'' 

Captain.  Well,  she  has  stolen  that  much. 

Alice.  But  I  have  also  had  to  borrow  money  from  her. 

Captain.  I  think  you  capable  of  it. 

Alice.  What  an  ingrate  you  are!  You  know  I  borrowed 
that  money  for  the  children  to  get  into  the  city. 

Captain.  Curt  had  a  fine  way  of  coming  back!  A  rascal, 
that  one,  too!  And  a  coward!  He  didn't  dare  to  say  he  had 
had  enough,  and  that  he  found  the  doctor's  party  more  pleas- 
ant—     He's  the  same  rapscallion  as  ever! 

Curt.  [Enters  quickly  from  the  lift  ]  Well,  my  dear  Edgar, 
this  is  how  the  matter  stands — the  doctor  knows  everything 
about  your  heart 

Captain.  My  heart  ? 

Curt.  You  have  long  been  suffering  from  calcification  of 
the  heart • 

Captain.  Stone  heart  ? 

Curt.  And 

Captain.  Is  it  serious  ? 

Curt.  Well,  that  is  to  say 

Captain.  It  is  serious. 

Curt.  Yes. 

Captain.  Fatal? 

Curt.  You  must  be  very  careful.  First  of  all:  the  cigar 
must  go.  [The  Captain  throws  away  his  cigar]  And  next:  no 
more  whiskey !    Then,  to  bed ! 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        179 

Captain.  [Scared]  No,  I  don't  want  that!  Not  to  bed! 
That's  the  end!  Then  you  never  get  up  again.  I  shall  sleep 
on  the  couch  to-night.     What  more  did  he  say  ? 

Curt.  He  was  very  nice  about  it  and  will  come  at  once  if 
you  call  him. 

Captain.  Was  he  nice,  the  hypocrite?  I  don't  want  to 
see  him !     I  can  at  least  eat  ? 

Curt.  Not  to-night.  And  during  the  next  few  days  noth- 
ing but  milk. 

Captain.  Milk!     I  cannot  take  that  stuff  into  my  mouth. 

Curt,  Better  learn  how ! 

Captain.  I  am  too  old  to  learn.  [Puts  his  hand  up  to  his 
head]  Oh,  there  it  is  again  now! 

[He  sits  perfectly  still,  staring  straight  ahead. 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  What  did  the  doctor  tell  you .' 

Curt.  That  he  may  die. 

Alice.  Thank  God! 

Curt.  Take  care,  Alice,  take  care!  And  now,  go  and  get 
a  pillow  and  a  blanket  and  I'll  put  him  here  on  the  couch. 
Then  I'll  sit  on  the  chair  here  all  night. 

Alice.  And  I  ? 

Curt.  You  go  to  bed.  Your  presence  seems  only  to  make 
him  worse. 

Alice.  Command!  I  shall  obey,  for  you  seem  to  mean 
well  toward  both  of  us.  [Goes  out  to  the  left. 

Curt.  Mark  you — toward  both  of  you!  And  I  shall  not 
mix  in  any  partisan  squabbles. 

Curt  takes  the  water  bottle  and  goes  out  to  the  right. 
The  noise  of  the  wind  outside  is  clearly  heard.  Then 
one  of  the  doors  is  blown  open  and  an  old  woman  of 
shabby,  unprepossessing  appearance  peeps  into  the 
room. 


180        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Captain.  [Wakes  up,  7-ises,  and  looks  arouncJ]  So,  tliey  have 
left  me,  the  rascals!  [Catches  sight  of  the  old  xcoman  and  is 
frightened  hy  hei-\  Who  is  it?     What  do  you  want? 

Old  Woman.  I  just  wanted  to  close  the  door,  sir. 

Captain.  Why  should  you  ?     Why  should  you  ? 

Old  W'oman.  Because  it  blew  open  just  as  I  passed  by. 

Captain.  Wanted  to  steal,  did  you  ? 

Old  Woman.  Not  much  here  to  take  away,  Christine  said. 

Captain.  Christine  ? 

Old  Woman.  Good  night,  sir,  and  sleep  well! 

[Closes  the  door  and  disappears, 
Alice  comes  in  from  the  left  with  pillows  and  a  blanket. 

Captain.  Who  was  that  at  the  door  ?     Anybody  ? 

Alice.  Why,  it  was  old  Mary  from  the  poorhouse  who  just 
went  by. 

Captain.  Are  you  sure  ? 

Alice.  Are  vou  afraid  ? 

Captain.  I,  afraid  ?     Oh,  no ! 

Alice.  As  you  don't  want  to  go  to  bed,  you  can  lie  here. 

Captain.  [Goes  over  to  the  couch  and  lies  dow7i]  I'll  lie  here. 
[Ti'ies  to  take  Alice's  hand,  but  she  pidls  it  away. 
Curt  comes  in  with  the  water  bottle. 

Captain.  Curt,  don't  go  away  from  me ! 

CuuT.  I  am  going  to  stay  up  with  you  all  night.  Alice  is 
going  to  bed. 

Captain.  Good  night  then,  Alice. 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  Good  night,  Curt. 

Curt,  Good  night. 

[Alice  goes  out. 

Curt.  [Takes  a  chair  and  sits  down  beside  the  coucli\  Don't 
you  want  to  take  off  your  boots  ? 

Captain.  No,  a  warrior  should  always  be  armed. 

Curt.  Are  you  expecting  a  battle  then  ? 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        isi 

Captain.  Perhaps!  [Rismg  vp  in  hcd]  Curt,  you  are  the 
only  human  being  to  whom  I  ever  disclosed  anything  of  myself. 
Listen  to  me! —     If  I  die  to-night— look  after  my  children! 

Curt.  I  will  do  so. 

Captain.  Thank  you — I  trust  in  you ! 

Curt.  Can  you  explain  why  you  trust  me  ? 

Captain.  We  have  not  been  friends,  for  friendship  is  some- 
thing I  don't  believe  in,  and  our  families  were  born  enemies 
and  have  always  been  at  war 

Curt.  And  yet  you  trust  me  ? 

Captain.  Yes,  and  I  don't  know  why.  [Silence]  Do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  die  ? 

Curt.  You  as  well  as  everybody.  There  will  be  no  ex- 
ception made  in  your  case. 

Captain.  Are  you  bitter  ? 

Curt.  Yes — are  you  afraid  of  death  ?  Of  the  wheelbarrow 
and  the  garden  bed  ? 

Captain.  Think,  if  it  were  not  the  end! 

Curt.  That's  what  a  great  many  think ! 

Captain.  And  then  ? 

Curt.  Nothing  but  surprises,  I  suppose. 

Captain.  But  nothing  at  all  is  known  with  certainty  ? 

Curt.  No,  that's  just  it!  That  is  why  you  must  be  pre- 
pared for  everything. 

Captain.  You  are  not  childish  enough  to  believe  in  a  hell  ? 

Curt.  Do  you  not  believe  in  it — you,  who  are  right  in  it  ? 

Captain.  That  is  metaphorical  only. 

Curt.  The  realism  with  which  you  have  described  yours 
seems  to  preclude  all  thought  of  metaphors,  poetical  or  other- 

Captain.  If  you  only  knew  what  pangs  I  suffer! 
Curt.  Of  the  body  ? 
Captain.  No,  not  of  the  body. 


182        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Curt.  Then  it  must  be  of  the  spirit,  for  no  other  alterna- 
tive exists.  [Pause. 
Captain.  [Rising  up  in  hed]  I  don't  want  to  die! 
Curt.  Not  long  ago  you  wished  for  annihilation. 
Captain.  Yes,  if  it  be  painless. 
Curt.  Apparently  it  is  not! 
Captain.  Is  this  annihilation  then  ? 
Curt.  The  beginning  of  it. 
Captain.  Good  night. 
Curt.  Good  night. 

Curtain. 


The  same  setting,  hut  now  the  lamp  is  at  the  'point  of  going  o7it. 
Through  the  windotcs  and  the  glass  panes'  of  the  dxwrs  a 
gray  morning  is  visible.  The  sea  is  stirring.  The  sentnj 
is  on  the  battery  as  before. 

The  Captain  is  lying  on  the  couch,  asleep.     Curt  sits 
on  a  chair  beside  him,  looking  pale  and  wearied  from 
his  watch. 
Alice.  [In  from  the  left]  Is  he  asleep  ? 
Curt.  Yes,  since  the  time  when  the  sun  should  have  risen. 
Alice.  What  kind  of  night  did  he  have  ? 
Curt.  He  slept  now  and  then,  but  he  talked  a  good  deal. 
Alice.  Of  what  ? 

Curt.  He  argued  about  religion  like  a  schoolboy,  but  with 
a  pretension  of  having  solved  all  the  world  riddles.     Finally, 
toward  morning,  he  invented  the  immortality  of  the  soul. 
Alice.  For  his  own  glory. 

Curt.  Exactly!  He  is  actually  the  most  conceited  person 
I  have  ever  met.     "I  am ;  consequently  God  must  be." 

Alice.  You  have  become  aware  of  it?  Look  at  those 
boots.  With  those  he  would  have  trampled  the  earth  flat, 
had  he  been  allowed  to  do  so.  With  those  he  has  trampled 
down  other  people's  fields  and  gardens.  With  those  he  has 
trampled  on  some  people's  toes  and  other  people's  heads — 
Man-eater,  you  have  got  your  bullet  at  last ! 

Curt.  He  would  be  comical  were  he  not  so  tragical;  and 
there  are  traces  of  greatness  in  all  his  narrow-mindedness — 
Have  you  not  a  single  good  word  to  say  about  him  ? 

Alice.  [Sitting  down]  Yes,  if  he  only  does  not  hear  it;  for 
if  he  hears  a  single  word  of  praise  he  develops  megalomania 

on  the  spot. 

183 


18i        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Curt.  He  can  hear  nothing  now,  for  he  has  had  a  dose  of 
morphine. 

Alice.  Born  in  a  poor  home,  with  many  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, Edgar  very  early  had  to  support  the  family  by  giving  les- 
sons, as  the  father  was  a  ne'er-do-well  if  nothing  worse.  It 
must  be  hard  for  a  young  man  to  give  up  all  the  pleasures  of 
youth  in  order  to  slave  for  a  bunch  of  thankless  children  whom 
he  has  not  brought  into  the  world.  I  was  a  little  girl  when  I 
saw  him,  as  a  young  man,  going  without  an  overcoat  in  the 
winter  while  the  mercury  stood  at  fifteen  below  zero — his  little 
sisters  wore  kersey  coats — it  was  fine,  and  I  admired  him,  but 
his  ugliness  repelled  me.     Is  he  not  unusually  ugly  .'* 

Curt.  Yes,  and  his  ugliness  has  a  touch  of  the  monstrous 
at  times.  Whenever  we  fell  out,  I  noticed  it  particularly. 
And  when,  at  such  times,  he  went  away,  his  image  assumed 
enormous  forms  and  proportions,  and  he  literally  haunted  me. 

Alice,  Think  of  me  then!  However,  his  earlier  years  as 
an  oflBcer  were  undoubtedly  a  martyrdom.  But  now  and 
then  he  was  helped  by  rich  people.  This  he  will  never  admit, 
and  whatever  has  come  to  him  in  that  way  he  has  accepted 
as  a  due  tribute,  without  giving  thanks  for  it. 

Curt.  We  were  to  speak  well  of  him. 

Alice.  Yes— after  he  is  dead.  But  then  I  recall  nothing 
more. 

Curt.  Have  you  found  him  cruel  ? 

Alice.  Yes — and  yet  he  can  show  himself  both  kind  and 
susceptible  to  sentiment.     As  an  enemy  he  is  simply  horrible. 

Curt.  Why  did  he  not  get  the  rank  of  major .' 

Alice.  Oh,  you  ought  to  understand  that!  They  didn't 
■w^ant  to  raise  a  man  above  themselves  who  had  already  proved 
himself  a  tyrant  as  an  inferior.  But  you  must  never  let  on 
that  you  know  this.  He  says  himself  that  he  did  not  want 
promotion —     Did  he  speak  of  the  children  ? 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        185 

Curt.  Yes,  he  was  longing  for  Judith. 

Alice.  I  thought  so —  Oh!  Do  you  know  what  Judith 
is  ?  His  own  image,  whom  he  has  trained  for  use  against  me. 
Think  only,  that  my  own  daughter — has  raised  her  hand 
against  me ! 

Curt.  That  is  too  much! 

Alice.  Hush!  He  is  moving —  Think  if  he  overheard 
us!     He  is  full  of  trickery  also. 

Curt.  He  is  actually  waking  up. 

Alice.  Does  he  not  look  like  an  ogre  ?    I  am  afraid  of  him ! 

[Sile7ice. 

Captain.  [Stirs,  wakes  up,  rises  in  bed,  and  looks  around]  It 
is  morning — at  last! 

Curt.  How  are  you  feeling  ? 

Captain.  Not  so  very  bad. 

Curt.  Do  you  want  a  doctor  ? 

Captain.  No — I  want  to  see  Judith — my  child ! 

Curt.  Would  it  not  be  wise  to  set  your  house  in  order  be- 
fore— or  if  something  should  happen  ? 

Captain.  What  do  you  mean  ?     What  could  happen  ? 

Curt.  What  may  happen  to  all  of  us. 

Captain.  Oh,  nonsense!  Don't  yon  believe  that  I  die  so 
easily!     And  don't  rejoice  prematurely,  Alice! 

Curt.  Think  of  your  children.  Make  your  will  so  that 
your  wife  at  least  may  keep  the  household  goods. 

Captain.  Is  she  going  to  inherit  from  me  while  I  am  still 
alive  ? 

Curt.  No,  but  if  something  happens  she  ought  not  to  be 
turned  into  the  street.  One  who  has  dusted  and  polished  and 
looked  after  these  things  for  twenty-five  years  should  have 
some  right  to  remain  in  possession  of  them.  May  I  send 
word  to  the  regimental  lawyer  ? 

Captain.  No! 


186        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Curt.  You  are  a  cruel  man — more  cruel  than  I  thought 
you! 

Captain.  Now  it  is  back  again ! 

[Falls  back  on  the  bed  unconscious. 

Alice.  [Goes  toward  the  right]  There  are  some  people  in 
the  kitchen —     I  have  to  go  down  there. 

Curt.  Yes,  go.     Here  is  not  much  to  be  done. 

[Alice  goes  out. 

Captain.  [Recovers]  Well,  Curt,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  your  quarantine  ? 

Curt.  Oh,  that  will  be  all  right. 

Captain.  No;  I  am  in  command  on  this  island,  so  you  will 
have  to  deal  with  me — don't  forget  that! 

Curt.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  quarantine  station  ? 

Captain.  Have  I  ?  Before  you  were  born.  And  I'll  give 
you  a  piece  of  advice:  don't  place  your  disinfection  plant  too 
close  to  the  shore. 

Curt.  I  was  thinking  that  the  nearer  I  could  get  to  the 
water  the  better 

Captain.  That  shows  how  much  you  know  of  your  business. 
Water,  don't  you  see,  is  the  element  of  the  bacilli,  their  life 
element  ? 

Curt.  But  the  salt  water  of  the  sea  is  needed  to  wash  away 
all  the  impurity. 

Captain.  Idiot!  Well,  now,  when  you  get  a  house  for  your- 
self I  suppose  you'll  bring  home  your  children  ? 

Curt.  Do  you  think  they  will  let  themselves  be  brought  ? 

Captain.  Of  course,  if  you  have  got  any  backbone!  It 
would  make  a  good  impression  on  the  people  if  you  fulfilled 
your  duties  in  that  respect  also 

Curt.  I  have  always  fulfilled  my  duties  in  that  respect. 

Captain.  [Raising  his  voice]  — in  the  one  respect  where 
you  have  proved  yourself  most  remiss 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        \S1 


Curt.  Have  I  not  told  you- 


Captain.  [Paying  no  attention]  — for  one  does  not  desert 
one's  children  like  that 

Curt,  Go  right  on ! 

Captain.  As  your  relative — a  relatiAe  older  than  yourself 
— I  feel  entitled  to  tell  you  the  truth,  even  if  it  should  prove 
bitter — and  you  should  not  take  it  badly 

Curt.  Are  you  hungry  ? 

Captain.  Yes,  I  am. 

Curt.  Do  you  want  something  light? 

Captain.  No,  something  solid. 

Curt.  Then  you  would  be  done  for. 

Captain.  Is  it  not  enough  to  be  sick,  but  one  must  starve 
also? 

Curt.  That's  how  the  land  lies. 

Captain.  And  neither  drink  nor  smoKe  ?  Then  life  is  not 
worth  much ! 

Curt.  Death  demands  sacrifices,  or  it  comes  at  once. 

Alice.  [Enters  tvith  several  bunches  of  flowers  and  some  tele- 
grams and  letters]  These  are  for  you. 

[Throws  the  floxoers  on  the  writing-table. 

Captain.  [Flattered]  For  me!     Will  you  please  let  me  look  ? 

Alice.  Oh,  they  are  only  from  the  non-commissioned  offi- 
cers, the  bandmen,  and  the  gunners. 

Captain.  You  are  jealous. 

Alice.  Oh,  no.  If  it  were  laurel  wreaths,  that  would  be 
another  matter — but  those  you  can  never  get. 

Captain.  Hm! —  Here's  a  telegram  from  the  Colonel — 
read  it.  Curt.  The  Colonel  is  a  gentleman  after  all — though 
he  is  something  of  an  idiot.  And  this  is  from — what  does  it 
say  ?  It  is  from  Judith !  Please  telegraph  her  to  come  with 
the  next  boat.  And  here — ^yes,  one  is  not  quite  without 
friends  after  all,  and  it  is  fine  to  see  them  take  thought  of  a 


188        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

sick  man,  who  is  also  a  man  of  deserts  above  his  rank,  and  a 
man  free  of  fear  or  blemish. 

Alice.  I  don't  quite  understand — are  they  congratulating 
you  because  you  are  sick  ? 

Captain.  Hyena! 

Alice.  Yes,  we  had  a  doctor  here  on  the  island  who  was 
so  hated  that  when  he  left  they  gave  a  banquet — after  him, 
and  not  for  him ! 

Captain.  Put  the  flowers  in  water— I  am  not  easily  caught, 
and  all  people  are  a  lot  of  rabble,  but,  by  heavens,  these  sim- 
ple tributes  are  genuine — they  cannot  be  anything  but  genuine! 

Alice.  Fool! 

Curt.  [Reading  the  telegram]  Judith  says  she  cannot  come 
because  the  steamer  is  held  back  by  the  storm. 

Captain.  Is  that  all  ? 

Curt.  No-o — there  is  a  postscript. 

Captain.  Out  with  it! 

Curt.  Well,  she  asks  her  father  not  to  drink  so  much. 

Captain.  Impudence!  That's  like  children!  That's  my 
only  beloved  daughter — my  Judith — my  idol! 

Alice.  And  your  image! 

Captain.  Such  is  life.     Such  are  its  best  joys —     Hell! 

Alice.  Now  you  get  the  harvest  of  your  sowing.  You  have 
set  her  against  her  own  mother  and  now  she  turns  against 
the  father.     Tell  me,  then,  that  there  is  no  God! 

Captain.  [To  Curt]  What  does  the  Colonel  say  ? 

Curt.  He  grants  leave  of  absence  without  any  comment. 

Captain.  Leave  of  absence  ?     I  have  not  asked  for  it. 

Alice.  No,  but  I  have  asked  for  it. 

Captain.  I  don't  accept  it. 

Alice.  Order  has  already  been  issued. 

Captain.  That's  none  of  my  concern! 

Alice.  Do  you  see.  Curt,  that  for  this  man  exist  no  laws, 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        189 

no  constitutions,  no  prescribed  human  order?  lie  stands 
above  everything  and  everybody.  The  universe  is  created 
for  his  private  use.  The  sun  and  the  moon  pursue  their 
courses  in  order  to  spread  his  glory  among  the  stars.  Such 
is  this  man:  this  insignificant  captain,  who  could  not  even 
reach  the  rank  of  major,  and  at  whose  strutting  everybody 
laughs,  while  he  thinks  himself  feared;  this  poor  wretch  who 
is  afraid  in  the  dark  and  believes  in  barometers:  and  all  this 
in  conjunction  with  and  having  for  its  climax — a  barrowful 
of  manure  that  is  not  even  prime  quality! 

Captain.  [Fanning  himself  with  a  bunch  of  flowers,  con- 
ceitedly, without  listening  to  Alice]  Have  you  asked  Curt  to 
breakfast  ? 
Alice.  No. 

Captain.  Get  us,  then,  at  once  two  nice  tenderloin  steaks. 
Alice,  Two  ? 

Capi'ain.  I  am  going  to  have  one  myself. 
Alice.  But  we  are  three  here. 

Captain.  Oh,  you  want  one  also?  Well,  make  it  three 
then. 

Alice.  Where  am  I  to  get  them  ?  Last  night  you  asked 
Curt  to  supper,  and  there  was  not  a  crust  of  bread  in  the 
house.  Curt  has  been  awake  all  night  without  anything  to 
eat,  and  he  has  had  no  coffee  because  there  is  none  in  the 
house  and  the  credit  is  gone. 

Captain.  She  is  angry  at  me  for  not  dying  yesterday. 
Alice.  No,  for  not  dying  twenty-five  years  ago — for  not 
dying  before  you  were  born ! 

Captain.  [To  Curt]  Listen  to  her!  That's  what  happens 
when  you  institute  a  marriage,  my  dear  Curt.  And  it  is  per- 
fectly clear  that  it  was  not  instituted  in  heaven. 

[Alice  and  Curt  look  at  each  other  meaningly. 
Captain.  [Rises  and  goes  toward  the  door]  However,  say 


190        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

what  you  will,  now  I  am  going  on  duty.  [Puts  on  an  old- 
fashioned  helmet  with  a  brush  crest,  girds  on  the  sabre,  and  shoul- 
ders his  cloak\  If  anybody  calls  for  me,  I  am  at  the  battery. 
[Alice  and  Curt  try  vainly  to  hold  him  bacJc\  Stand  aside! 

{Goes  out. 

Alice.  Yes,  go!  You  always  go,  always  show  your  back, 
whenever  the  fight  becomes  too  much  for  you.  And  then  you 
let  your  wife  cover  the  retreat — you  hero  of  the  bottle,  you 
arch-braggart,  you  arch-liar!     Fie  on  you! 

Curt.  This  is  bottomless! 

Alice.  And  you  don't  know  everything  yet. 

Curt.  Is  there  anything  more 

Alice.  But  I  am  ashamed 

Curt.  Where  is  he  going  now  .?  And  where  does  he  get  the 
strength .'' 

Alice.  Yes,  you  may  well  ask !  Now  he  goes  down  to  the 
non-commissioned  oflBcers  and  thanks  them  for  the  flowers — 
and  then  he  eats  and  drinks  with  them.  And  then  he  speaks 
ill  of  all  the  other  ofiicers —  If  you  only  knew  how  many 
times  he  has  been  threatened  with  discharge!  Nothing  but 
sympathy  for  his  family  has  saved  him.  And  this  he  takes 
for  fear  of  his  superiority.  And  he  hates  and  maligns  the 
very  women — wives  of  other  officers — who  have  been  plead- 
ing our  cause. 

Curt.  I  have  to  confess  that  I  applied  for  this  position  in 
order  to  find  peace  by  the  sea — and  of  your  circumstances  I 
knew  nothing  at  all. 

Alice.  Poor  Curt!    And  how  will  you  get  something  to  eat  ? 

Curt.  Oh,  I  can  go  over  to  the  doctor's — but  you  ?  Will 
you  not  permit  me  to  arrange  this  for  you  ? 

Alice.  If  only  he  does  not  learn  of  it,  for  then  he  would 
kill  me. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        191 

Curt.  [Looking  out  through  the  window]  Look,  he  stands 
right  in  the  wind  out  there  on  the  rampart. 

Alice.  He  is  to  be  pitied — for  being  what  he  is! 

Curt.  Both  of  you  are  to  be  pitied!  But  what  can  be 
done? 

Alice.  I  don't  know —  The  mail  brought  a  batch  of  un- 
paid bills  also,  and  those  he  did  not  see. 

Curt.  It  may  be  fortunate  to  escape  seeing  things  at  times. 

Alice.  [At  the  windoiv]  He  has  unbuttoned  his  cloak  and 
lets  the  wind  strike  his  chest.     Now  he  wants  to  die ! 

Curt.  That  is  not  what  he  wants,  I  think,  for  a  while  ago, 
when  he  felt  his  life  slipping  away,  he  grabbed  hold  of  mine 
and  began  to  stir  in  my  affairs  as  if  he  wanted  to  crawl  into 
me  and  live  my  life. 

Alice.  That  is  just  his  vampire  nature — to  interfere  with 
other  people's  destinies,  to  suck  interest  out  of  other  existences, 
to  regulate  and  arrange  the  doings  of  others,  since  he  can  find 
no  interest  whatever  in  his  own  life.  And  remember.  Curt, 
don't  ever  admit  him  into  your  family  life,  don't  ever  make  him 
acquainted  with  your  friends,  for  he  will  take  them  away 
from  you  and  make  them  his  own.  He  is  a  perfect  magician 
in  this  respect.  Were  he  to  meet  your  children,  you  would 
soon  find  them  intimate  with  him,  and  he  would  be  advising 
them  and  educating  them  to  suit  himself — but  principally  in 
opposition  to  your  wishes. 

Curt.  Alice,  was  it  not  he  who  took  my  children  away 
from  me  at  the  time  of  the  divorce  ? 

Alice.  Since  it  is  all  over  now — yes,  it  was  he. 

Curt.  I  have  suspected  it,  but  never  had  any  certainty. 
It  was  he ! 

Alice.  When  you  placed  your  full  trust  in  my  husband  and 
sent  him  to  make  peace  between  yourself  and  your  wife,  he 


192        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

made  love  to  her  instead,  and  taught  her  the  tritk  that  gave 
her  the  children. 

Curt.  Oh,  God!     God  in  heaven! 

Alice.  There  you  have  another  side  of  him.  [Silence. 

Curt.  Do  you  know,  last  night — when  he  thought  himself 
dying — then — he  made  me  promise  that  I  should  look  after 
his  children! 

Alice.  But  you  don't  want  to  revenge  yourself  on  my  chil- 
dren ? 

Curt.  Yes — by  keeping  my  promise.  I  shall  look  after 
your  children. 

Alice.  You  could  take  no  worse  revenge,  for  there  is  noth- 
ing he  hates  so  much  as  generosity. 

Curt.  Then  I  may  consider  myself  revenged — without  any 
revenge. 

Alice.  I  love  revenge  as  a  form  of  justice,  and  I  am  yearn- 
ing to  see  evil  get  its  punishment. 

Curt.  You  still  remain  at  that  point  ? 

Alice.  There  I  shall  always  remain,  and  the  day  I  for- 
gave or  loved  an  enemy  I  should  be  a  hypocrite. 

Curt.  It  may  be  a  duty  not  to  say  everything,  Alice,  not 
to  see  everything.  It  is  called  forbearance,  and  all  of  us 
need  it. 

Alice.  Not  I!  My  life  lies  clear  and  open,  and  I  have 
always  played  my  cards  straight. 

Curt.  That  is  saying  a  good  deal. 

Alice.  No,  it  is  not  saying  enough.  Because  what  I  have 
suffered  innocently  for  the  sake  of  this  man,  whom  I  never 
loved 

Curt.  Why  did  you  marry  ? 

Alice.  Who  can  tell.?  Because  he  took  me,  seduced  me! 
I  don't  know.  And  then  I  was  longing  to  get  up  on  the 
heights 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        193 

Curt.  And  deserted  your  art? 

Alice.  Which  was  despised!  But  you  know,  he  cheated 
me!  He  held  out  hopes  of  a  pleasant  hfe,  a  handsome  home 
— and  there  was  nothing  but  debts;  no  gold  except  on  the 
uniform — and  even  that  was  not  real  gold.     He  cheated  me! 

Curt.  Wait  a  moment!  When  a  young  man  falls  in  love, 
he  sees  the  future  in  a  hopeful  light:  that  his  hopes  are  not 
always  realized,  one  must  j)ardon.  I  have  the  same  kind  of 
deceit  on  my  own  conscience  without  thinking  myself  dis- 
honest—     What  is  it  you  see  on  the  rampart  ? 

Alice.  I  want  to  see  if  he  has  fallen  down. 

Curt.  Has  he  ? 

Alice.  No — worse  luck!     He  is  cheating  me  all  the  time. 

Curt.  Then  I  shall  call  on  the  doctor  and  the  lawyer. 

Alice.  [Sitting  doicn  at  the  ivindoir]  Yes,  dear  Curt,  go. 
I  shall  sit  here  and  wait.     And  I  have  learned  how  to  wait! 

Curtain. 


Same  setting  in  full  daylight.     The  sentnj  is  pacing  back  and 
forth  on  the  battery  as  before. 

Alice  sits  in  the  right-hand  easy-chair.     Her  hair  is 
now  gray. 

Curt.  [Enters  from  the  left  after  having  knocked]  Good  day, 
Alice. 

Alice.  Good  day,  Curt.     Sit  down. 

Curt.  [Sits  doicn  in  the  left-hand  easy-chair]  The  steamer 
is  just  coming  in. 

Alice.  Then  I  know  what's  in  store,  for  he  is  on  board. 

Curt.  Yes,  he  is,  for  I  caught  the  ghtter  of  his  helmet — 
What  has  he  been  doing  in  the  city  ? 

Alice.  Oh,  I  can  figure  it  out.  He  dressed  for  parade, 
which  means  that  he  saw  the  Colonel,  and  he  put  on  white 
gloves,  which  means  that  he  made  some  calls. 

Curt.  Did  you  notice  his  quiet  manner  yesterday  ?  Since 
he  has  quit  drinking  and  become  temperate,  he  is  another 
man:  calm,  reserved,  considerate 

Alice.  I  know  it,  and  if  that  man  had  always  kept  sober 
he  would  have  been  a  menace  to  humanity.  It  is  perhaps 
fortunate  for  the  rest  of  mankind  that  he  made  himself  ridic- 
ulous and  harmless  through  his  whiskey. 

Curt.  The  spirit  in  the  bottle  has  chastised  him —  But 
have  you  noticed  since  death  put  its  mark  on  him  that  he  has 
developed  a  dignity  which  elevates  ?  And  is  it  not  possible 
that  with  this  new  idea  of  immortality  may  have  come  a  new 
outlook  upon  life .'' 

Alice.  You  are  deceiving  yourself.  He  is  conjuring  up 
something  evil.     And  don't  you  believe  what  he  says,  for  he 

194 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        195 

lies  with  premeditation,  and  he  knows  the  art  of  intriguing  as 
no  one  else 

Curt.  [Watching  Alice]  Why,  Alice,  what  does  this  mean  ? 
Your  hair  has  turned  gray  in  these  two  nights! 

Alice.  No,  my  friend,  it  has  long  been  gray,  and  I  have 
simply  neglected  to  darken  it  since  my  husband  is  as  good  as 
dead.  Twenty-five  years  in  prison — do  you  know  that  this 
place  served  as  a  prison  in  the  old  days  ? 

Curt.  Prison — well,  the  walls  show  it. 

Alice.  And  my  complexion!  Even  the  children  took  on 
prison  color  in  here. 

Curt.  I  find  it  hard  to  imagine  children  prattling  within 
these  walls. 

Alice.  There  was  not  much  prattling  done  either.  And 
those  two  that  died  perished  merely  from  lack  of  light. 

Curt.  What  do  you  think  is  coming  next  ? 

Alice.  The  decisive  blow  at  us  two.  I  caught  a  familiar 
glimmer  in  his  eye  when  you  read  out  that  telegram  from 
Judith.  It  ought,  of  course,  to  have  been  directed  against 
her,  but  she,  you  know,  is  inviolate,  and  so  his  hatred  sought 
you. 

Curt.  What  are  his  intentions  in  regard  to  me,  do  you  think  ? 

Alice.  Hard  to  tell,  but  he  possesses  a  marvellous  skill  in 
nosing  out  other  people's  secrets — and  did  you  notice  how, 
all  day  yesterday,  he  seemed  to  be  living  in  your  quarantine; 
how  he  drank  a  life-interest  out  of  your  existence;  how  he  ate 
your  children  alive  ?  A  cannibal,  I  tell  you — for  I  know  him. 
His  own  life  is  going,  or  has  gone 

Curt.  I  also  have  that  impression  of  his  being  already 
on  the  other  side.  His  face  seems  to  phosphoresce,  as  if  he 
were  in  a  state  of  decay — and  his  eyes  flash  like  will-o'-the- 
wisps  over  graves  or  morasses —  Here  he  comes!  Tell  him 
you  thought  it  possible  he  might  be  jealous. 


19G        THE   DANCE    OF   DEATH 

Alice.  No,  he  is  too  self-conceited.  "Show  me  the  man 
of  whom  I  need  to  be  jealous!"     Those  are  his  own  words. 

Curt.  So  much  the  better,  for  even  his  faults  carry  with 
them  a  certain  merit — -     Shall  I  get  up  and  meet  him  anyhow  : 

Alice.  No,  be  impolite,  or  he  will  think  you  false.  Am' 
if  he  begins  to  lie,  pretend  to  believe  him.  I  know  perfectly 
how  to  translate  his  lies,  and  get  always  at  the  truth  with  the 
help  of  my  dictionary.  I  foresee  something  dreadful — ^but, 
Curt,  don't  lose  your  self-control!  My  own  advantage  in 
our  long  struggle  has  been  that  I  was  always  sober,  and  for 
that  reason  in  full  control  of  myself.  He  was  always  tripped 
by  his  whiskey —     Now  we  shall  see! 

Captain.  [In  from  the  left  in  full  uniform,  with  helmet,  cloak, 
and  white  gloves.  Calm,  dignified,  htd  -pale  and  hollow-eyed. 
Moves  forward  with  a  tottering  step  and  sinks  down,  his  helmet 
and  cloak  still  on,  in  a  chair  at  the  right  of  the  stage,  far  from 
Curt  and  Alice]  Good  day.  Pardon  me  for  sitting  down 
like  this,  but  I  feel  a  little  tired. 

Alice  and  Curt.  Good  day.     Welcome  home. 

Alice.  How  are  you  feeling  ? 

Captain.  Splendid !     Only  a  little  tired 

Alice.  What  news  from  the  city  ? 

Captain.  Oh,  a  little  of  everything.  I  saw  the  doctor, 
among  other  things,  and  he  said  it  was  nothing  at  all — that  I 
might  live  twenty  years,  if  I  took  care  of  myself. 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  Now  he  is  lying.  [To  i/te  Captain]  Why, 
that's  fine,  my  dear. 

Captain.  So  much  for  that. 

Silejice,  during  which  the  Captain  is  looking  at  Alice 
and  Curt  as  if  expecting  them  to  speak. 

Alice.  [7*0  Curt]  Don't  say  a  word,  but  let  him  begin — 
then  he  will  show  his  cards. 

Captain.  [To  Alice]  Did  you  say  anything? 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        197 

Alice.  No,  not  a  word. 

Captain.  [Dragging  on  the  words^  Well,  Curt! 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  There — now  he  is  coming  out. 

Captain.  Well,  I  went  to  the  city,  as  you  know.  [Curt 
nods  assent]  Mm-mm,  I  pic-ked  up  acquaintances — and  among 
others — a  young  cadet  [dragging^  in  the  artillery.  [Pause,  dur- 
ing which  Curt  shows  some  agitation^  As — we  are  in  need  of 
cadets  right  here,  I  arranged  with  the  Colonel  to  let  him  come 
here.  This  ought  to  please  you,  especially  when  I  inform 
you  that — he  is — your  own  son ! 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  The  vampire — don't  you  see? 

Curt.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  that  ought  to  please 
a  father,  but  in  my  case  it  will  merely  be  painful. 

Captain.  I  don't  see  why  it  should ! 

Curt.  You  don't  need  to — it  is  enough  that  I  don't  want  it. 

Captain.  Oh,  you  think  so?  Well,  then,  you  ought  to 
know  that  the  young  man  has  been  ordered  to  report  here, 
and  that  from  now  on  he  has  to  obey  me. 

Curt.  Then  I  shall  force  him  to  seek  transfer  to  another 
regiment. 

Captain.  You  cannot  do  it,  as  you  have  no  rights  over 
your  son. 

Curt.  No? 

Captain.  No,  for  the  court  gave  those  rights  to  the  mother. 

Curt.  Then  I  shall  communicate  with  the  mother. 

Captain.  You  don't  need  to. 

Curt.  Don't  need  to  ? 

Captain.  No,  for  I  have  already  done  so.     Yah! 

[Curt  rises  hut  sinks  back  again. 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  Now  he  must  die! 

Curt.  Why,  he  is  a  cannibal ! 

Captain.  So  much  for  that!  [Straight  to  Alice  and  Curt] 
Did  you  say  anything  ? 


198        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  No — have  you  grown  hard  of  hearing  ? 

Captain.  Yes,  a  little — but  if  yon  come  nearer  to  me  I 
can  tell  you  something  between  ourselves. 

Alice.  That  is  not  necessary — and  a  witness  is  sometimes 
good  to  have  for  both  parties. 

Captain.  You  are  right;  witnesses  are  sometimes  good  to 
have!     But,  first  of  all,  did  you  get  that  will  ? 

Alice.  [Hands  him  a  document]  The  regimental  lawyer 
drew  it  up  himself. 

Captain.  In  your  favor — good!  [Reads  the  document  and 
then  tears  it  carefidly  into  strips  which  he  throios  on  the  floor] 
So  much  for  that!    Yah! 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  man  ? 

Curt,  That  is  no  man ! 

Captain.  Well,  Alice,  this  was  what  I  wanted  to  say 

Alice.  [Alarmed]  Go  on,  please. 

Captain.  [Calmly  as  before]  On  account  of  your  long  cher- 
ished desire  to  quit  this  miserable  existence  in  an  unhappy 
marriage;  on  account  of  the  lack  of  feeling  with  which  you 
have  treated  your  husband  and  children,  and  on  account 
of  the  carelessness  you  have  shown  in  the  handling  of  our 
domestic  economy,  I  have,  during  this  trip  to  the  city,  filed  an 
application  for  divorce  in  the  City  Court. 

Alice.  Oh — and  your  grounds  ? 

Captain.  [Calmly  as  before]  Besides  the  grounds  already 
mentioned,  I  have  others  of  a  purely  personal  nature.  As  it 
has  been  found  that  I  may  live  another  twenty  years,  I  am  con- 
templating a  change  from  this  unhappy  marital  union  to  one 
that  suits  me  better,  and  I  mean  to  join  my  fate  to  that  of  some 
woman  capable  of  devotion  to  her  husband,  and  who  also  may 
bring  into  the  home  not  only  youth,  but — let  us  say — a  little 
beauty ! 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        199 

Alice.  [Takes  the  wedding-ring  from  her  finger  and  throws 
it  at  the  Captain]  You  are  welcome! 

Captain.  [Picks  vp  the  ring  and  puts  it  in  his  vest  pocket] 
She  throws  away  the  ring.  The  witness  will  please  take 
notice. 

Alice.  [Rises  in  great  agitation]  And  you  intend  to  turn 
me  out  in  order  to  put  another  woman  into  my  home .-' 

Captain.  Yah! 

Alice.  Well,  then,  we'll  speak  plain  language!  Cousin 
Curt,  that  man  is  guilty  of  an  attempt  to  murder  his  wife. 

Curt.  An  attempt  to  murder  ? 

Alice.  Yes,  he  pushed  me  into  the  water. 

Captain.  Without  witnesses! 

Alice.  He  lies  again — Judith  saw  it! 

Captain.  Well,  what  of  it  ? 

Alice.  She  can  testify  to  it. 

Captain.  No,  she  cannot,  for  she  says  that  she  didn't  see 
anything. 

Alice.  You  have  taught  the  child  to  lie! 

Captain.  I  didn't  need  to,  for  you  had  taught  her  already. 

Alice.  You  have  met  Judith  ? 

Captain.  Yah! 

Alice.  Oh,  God!     Oh,  God! 

Captain.  The  fortress  has  surrendered.  The  enemy  will 
be  permitted  to  depart  in  safety  on  ten  minutes'  notice. 
[Places  his  watch  on  the  table]  Ten  minutes — watch  on  the 
table!  [Stops  and  puts  one  hand  up  to  his  heart. 

Alice.  [Goes  over  to  the  Captain  and  takes  his  arm]  What 
is  it  ? 

Captain.  I  don't  know. 

Alice.  Do  you  want  anything — a  drink  ? 

Captain.  Whiskey?  No,  I  don't  want  to  die —  You! 
[Straightening  himself  up]  Don't  touch  me!    Ten  minutes,  or 


200        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

the  garrison  will  be  massacred.    [Pulls  the  sabre  parthj  from 
the  scabbard]  Ten  minutes ! 

[Goes  out  through  the  background. 

Curt.  What  kind  of  man  is  this  ? 

Alice.  He  is  a  demon,  and  no  man! 

Curt.  What  does  he  want  with  my  son  ? 

Alice.  He  wants  him  as  hostage  in  order  to  be  your  mas- 
ter— he  wants  to  isolate  you  from  the  authorities  of  the 
island —  Do  you  know  that  the  people  around  here  have 
named  this  island  "Little  Hell"? 

Curt.  I  didn't  know  that —  Alice,  you  are  the  first  wom- 
an who  ever  inspired  me  with  compassion — all  others  have 
seemed  to  me  to  deserve  their  fate. 

Alice.  Don't  desert  me  now!  Don't  leave  me,  for  he  will 
beat  me — he  has  been  doing  so  all  these  twenty-five  years — 
in  the  presence  of  the  children — and  he  has  pushed  me  into 
the  water 

Curt.  Having  heard  this,  I  place  myself  absolutely  against 
him.  I  came  here  without  an  angry  thought,  without  mem- 
ory of  his  former  slanders  and  attempts  to  humiliate  me.  I 
forgave  him  even  when  you  told  me  that  he  was  the  man  who 
had  parted  me  from  my  children — for  he  was  ill  and  dying — 
but  now,  when  he  wants  to  steal  my  son,  he  must  die — he  or  I! 

Alice.  Good!  No  surrender  of  the  fortress!  But  blow  it 
up  instead,  with  him  in  it,  even  if  we  have  to  keep  him  com- 
pany!    I  am  in  charge  of  the  powder! 

Curt.  There  was  no  malice  in  me  when  I  came  here,  and 
I  wanted  to  run  away  when  I  felt  myself  infected  with  your 
hatred,  but  now  I  am  moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse  to 
hate  this  man,  as  I  hate  everything  that  is  evil.  What  can  be 
done? 

Alice.  I  have  learned  the  tactics  from  him.  Drum  up  his 
enemies  and  seek  allies. 


THE   DANCE    OF   DEATH        201 

Curt.  Just  think — that  he  should  get  hold  of  my  wife!  Why 
didn't  those  two  meet  a  life-time  ago  ?  Then  there  would 
have  been  a  battle-royal  that  had  set  the  earth  quaking. 

Alice.  But  now  these  souls  have  spied  each  other — and 
yet  they  must  part.  I  guess  what  is  his  most  vulnerable 
spot —     I  have  long  suspected  it 

Curt.  Who  is  his  most  faithful  enemy  on  the  island  ? 

Alice.  The  Quartermaster. 

Curt.  Is  he  an  honest  man  ? 

Alice.  He  is.  And  he  knows  what  I — I  know  too — he 
knows  what  the  Sergeant-Major  and  the  Captain  have  been 
up  to. 

Curt.  What  they  have  been  up  to  ?   You  don't  mean 

Alice.  Defalcations! 

Curt.  This  is  terrible!  No,  I  don't  want  to  have  any 
finger  in  that  mess ! 

Alice.  Ha-ha!     You  cannot  hit  an  enemy. 

Curt.  Formerly  I  could,  but  I  can  do  so  no  longer. 

Alice.  Why? 

Curt.  Because  I  have  discovered — that  justice  is  done 
anyhow. 

Alice.  And  you  could  wait  for  that  ?  Then  your  son  would 
already  have  been  taken  away  from  you.  Look  at  my  gray 
hairs — just  feel  how  thick  it  still  is,  for  that  matter —  He 
intends  to  marry  again,  and  then  I  shall  be  free — to  do  the 
same —  I  am  free!  And  in  ten  minutes  he  will  be  under 
arrest  down  below,  right  under  us — [stamps  her  foot  on  the 
floor]  right  under  us — and  I  shall  dance  above  his  head — I 
shall  dance  "The  Entry  of  the  Boyars" — [makes  a  few  steps 
with  her  arms  akimbo]  ha-ha-ha-ha !  And  I  shall  play  on  the 
piano  so  that  he  can  hear  it.  [Hammering  on  the  piajio]  Oh, 
the  tower  is  opening  its  gates,  and  the  sentry  with  the  drawn 
sabre  will  no  longer  be  guarding  me,  but  him — Malrough 


202        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

s'en  va-t-en  guerre!     Him,  him,  him,  the  sentry  is  going  to 
guard! 

Curt.  [Has  been  watching  her  ivith  an  intoxicated  look  in 
his  eyes]  Alice,  are  you,  too,  a  devil  ? 

Alice.  [Jumps  up  on  a  chair  and  pidls  down  the  wreaths] 
These  we  will  take  along  when  we  depart — the  laurels  of  tri- 
umph! And  fluttering  ribbons!  A  little  dusty,  but  eternally 
green — like  my  youth —     I  am  not  old.  Curt  ? 

Curt.  [With  shining  eyes]  You  are  a  devil ! 

Alice.  In  "Little  Hell"—  Listen!  Now  I  shall  fix  my  hair 
— [loosens  her  hair],  dress  in  two  minutes — go  to  the  Quarter- 
master in  two  minutes — and  then,  up  in  the  air  with  the  fort- 
ress! 

Curt.  [As  before]  You  are  a  devil! 

Alice.  That's  what  you  always  used  to  say  when  we  were 
children.  Do  you  remember  when  we  were  small  and  be- 
came engaged  to  each  other  ?  Ha-ha !  You  were  bashful,  of 
course 

Curt.  [Seriously]  Alice! 

Alice.  Yes,  you  were!  And  it  was  becoming  to  you.  Do 
you  know  there  are  gross  women  who  like  modest  men  ?  And 
there  are  said  to  be  modest  men  who  like  gross  women — 
You  liked  me  a  little  bit,  didn't  you  ? 

Curt.  I  don't  know  where  I  am! 

Alice.  With  an  actress  whose  manners  are  free,  but  who 
is  an  excellent  lady  otherwise.  Yes !  But  now  I  am  free,  free, 
free!     Turn  away  and  I'll  change  my  waist! 

She  opens  her  icaist.  Curt  rushes  up  to  her,  grabs  her 
in  his  arms,  lifts  her  high  up,  and  bites  her  throat  so 
that  she  cries  out.  Then  he  drops  her  on  the  couch 
and  runs  out  to  the  left. 

Curtain  and  irdermission. 


Same  stage  setting  in  early  evening  light.  The  sentry  on  the  bat- 
tery is  still  visible  through  the  windows  in  the  background. 
The  laurel  wreaths  are  hung  over  the  arms  of  an  easy- 
chair.     The  hanging  lump  is  lit.     Faint  music. 

The  Captain,  pale  and  hollow-eyed,  his  hair  showing 
touches  of  gray,  dressed  in  a  worn  undress  imiform, 
with  riding-boots,  sits  at  the  ivriting-table  and  plays 
solitaire.  He  wears  his  spectacles.  The  entr'acte 
music  continues  after  the  curtain  has  been  raised  and 
until  another  person  enters. 

The  Captain  plays  aivay  at  his  solitaire,  but  with  a 
sudden  staH  now  and  then,  when  he  looks  up  and  lis- 
tens with  evident  alarm. 

He  does  not  seem  able  to  make  the  solitaire  come  out,  so 
he  becomes  impatient  and  gathers  up  the  cards.  Then 
he  goes  to  the  left-hand  window,  opens  it,  and  throws 
out  the  cards.  The  window  {of  the  French  type)  rc- 
mains  open,  rattling  on  its  hinges. 

He  goes  over  to  the  buffet,  but  is  frightened  by  the  noise 
made  by  the  window,  so  that  he  turns  around  to  see 
what  it  is.  Takes  out  th  ree  dark-coloured  square  ^vhis- 
key  bottles,  examines  them  carefully — a7id  throics  them 
Old  of  the  window.  Takes  out  some  boxes  of  cigars, 
smells  at  one,  and  throws  them,  out  of  the  windoio. 

Next  he  takes  off  his  spectacles,  cleans  them  carefully, 
and  tries  how  far  he  can  see  with  them.  Then  he 
throws  them  out  of  the  windoic,  stumbles  against  the 
furniture  as  if  he  coidd  not  see,  and  lights  six  candles 
in  a  candelabrum  on  the  chiffonier.  Catches  sight  of 
the  laurel  wreaths,  picks  them-  up,  and  goes  toward  the 
window,  but  turns  back.  Folds  the  wreaths  carefully 
203 


204        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

in  the  piano  cover,  fastens  the  corners  together  u'ith 
pins  taken  from  the  tvriting-table,  and  puts  the  bundle 
on  a  chair.  Goes  to  the  piano,  strikes  the  keyboard 
tcith  his  fists,  locks  the  piano,  and  throws  the  key  out 
through  the  window.  Then  he  lights  the  candles  on 
the  piano.  Goes  to  the  what-not,  takes  his  ivife's 
picture  from  it,  looks  at  this  and  tears  it  to  pieces,  drop- 
ping the  pieces  on  the  floor.  The  icindow  rattles  on 
its  hinges,  and  again  he  becomes  frightened. 

Then,  after  having  calmed  himself,  he  takes  the  pictures 
of  his  son  and  daughter,  kisses  them  in  an  off-hand 
way,  and  puts  them  into  his  pocket.  All  the  rest  of 
the  pictures  he  s^veeps  dovm  with  his  elbow  and  pokes 
together  into  a  heap  with  his  foot. 

Then  he  sits  doicn  at  the  tvriting-table,  tired  out,  and  puts 
a  hand  up  to  his  heart.  Lights  the  candle  on  the  table 
and  sighs;  stares  in  front  of  himself  as  if  confronted 
with  unpleasant  visions.  Rises  and  goes  over  to  the 
chiffonier,  opens  the  lid,  takes  out  a  bundle  of  letters 
tied  together  with  a  blue  silk  ribbon,  and  throws 
the  bundle  into  the  fireplace  of  the  glazed  brick  oven. 
Closes  the  chiffonier.  The  telegraph  receiver  sounds 
a  single  click.  The  Captain  shrinks  together  in  dead- 
ly fear  and  stands  fixed  to  the  spot,  listening.  But 
hearing  nothing  more  from  the  instrument,  he  turns 
to  listen  in  the  direction  of  the  door  on  the  left.  Goes 
over  and  opens  it,  takes  a  step  inside  the  doorway,  and 
returns,  carrying  on  his  arm  a  cat  whose  back  he 
strokes.  Then  he  goes  out  to  the  right.  Noiv  the 
music  ceases. 

Alice  enters  from  the  background,  dressed  in  a  walking 
suit,  with  gloves  and  hat  on;  her  hair  is  black;  she 
looks  around  with  surprise  at  the  mxmy  lighted  candles. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        205 

Curt  enters  from  the  left,  nervous. 

Alice.  It  looks  like  Christmas  Eve  here. 

Curt.  Well? 

Alice.  [Holds  out  her  hand  for  him  to  kiss]  Thank  me! 
[Curt  kisses  her  hand  mncillinglij]  Six  witnesses,  and  four  of 
them  solid  as  rock.  The  report  has  been  made,  and  the  an- 
swer will  come  here  by  telegraph — right  here,  into  the  heart 
of  the  fortress. 

Curt.  So! 

Alice.  You  should  say  "thanks"  instead  of  "so." 

Curt.  Why  has  he  lit  so  many  candles .'' 

Alice.  Because  he  is  afraid  of  the  dark,  of  course.  Look 
at  the  telegraph  key — does  it  not  look  like  the  handle  of  a 
coffee  mill  ?  I  grind,  I  grind,  and  the  beans  crack  as  when 
you  pull  teeth 

Curt.  What  has  he  been  doing  in  the  room  here  ? 

Alice.  It  looks  as  if  he  intended  to  move.  Down  below, 
that's  where  you  are  going  to  move! 

Curt.  Don't,  Alice — I  think  it's  distressing!  He  was  the 
friend  of  my  youth,  and  he  showed  me  kindness  many  times 
when  I  was  in  difficulty —     He  should  be  pitied! 

Alice.  And  how  about  me,  who  have  done  nothing  wrong, 
and  who  have  had  to  sacrifice  my  career  to  that  monster  ? 

Curt.  How  about  that  career.''     Was  it  so  very  brilliant? 

Alice.  [Enraged]  What  are  you  saying?  Do  you  know 
who  I  am,  what  I  have  been  ? 

Curt.  Now,  now! 

Alice.  Are  you  beginning  already  ? 

Curt.  Already  ? 

Alice  throws  her  arms  around  Curt's  neck  and  kisses 

him. 
Curt  takes  her  by  the  arms  and  bites  her  neck  so  that 
she  screams. 


£06        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  You  bite  me! 

Curt.  [Beyond  himself]  Yes,  I  want  to  bite  your  throat  and 
suck  your  blood  like  a  lynx.  You  have  aroused  the  wild  beast 
in  me — that  beast  which  I  have  tried  for  years  to  kill  by  pri- 
vations and  self-inflicted  tortures.  I  came  here  believing  my- 
self a  little  better  than  you  two,  and  now  I  am  the  vilest  of  all. 
Since  I  first  saw  you — in  all  your  odious  nakedness — and  since 
my  vision  became  warped  by  passion,  I  have  known  the  full 
strength  of  evil.  What  is  ugly  becomes  beautiful;  what  is 
good  becomes  ugly  and  mean —  Come  here  and  I'll  choke 
you — with  a  kiss!  [He  locks  her  in  his  arms. 

Alice.  [Holds  up  her  left  hand]  Behold  the  mark  of  the 
shackles  that  you  have  broken.  I  was  a  slave,  and  you  set 
me  free. 

Curt.  But  I  am  going  to  bind  you 

Alice.  You  ? 

Curt.  I! 


Alice.  For  a  moment  I  thought  you  were 

Curt.  Pious  ? 

Alice.  Yes,  you  prated  about  the  fall  of  man 

Curt.  Did  I  ? 

Alice.  And  I  thought  you  had  come  here  to  preach 

Curt.  You  thought  so  ?  In  an  hour  we  shall  be  in  the  city, 
and  then  you  shall  see  what  I  am 

Alice,  Then  we  will  go  to  the  theatre  to-night,  just  to  show 
ourselves.     The  shame  will  be  his  if  I  run  away,  don't  you  see! 

Curt.  I  begin  to  understand  that  prison  is  not  enough 

Alice.  No,  it  is  not — there  must  be  shame  also. 

Curt.  A  strange  world !  You  commit  a  shameful  act,  and 
the  shame  falls  on  him. 

Alice.  Well,  if  the  world  be  so  stupid 

Curt.  It  is  as  if  these  prison  walls  had  absorbed  all  the 
tiorruption  of  the  criminals,  and  it  gets  into  you  if  you  merely 


THE    DANCE    OE   DEATH        207 

breathe  this  air.     You  were  tliinking  of  the  the.itre  and  the 
supper,  I  suppose.     I  was  thinking  of  my  son. 

Alice.  [Strikes  him  on  the  mouth  with  her  glove]  Fogey! 

[Curt  lifts  his  hand  as  if  to  strike  her. 

Alice.  [Drawijtg  back]  Tout  beau ! 

Curt.  Forgive  me! 

Alice.  Yes — on  your  knees!  [Curt  kneels  down]  Down 
on  your  face!  [Curt  touches  the  ground  icith  his  forehead] 
Kiss  my  foot!  [Curt  kisses  her  foot]  And  don't  you  ever  do  it 
again!     Get  up! 

Curt.  [Rising]  Where  have  I  landed  ?     Where  am  I  ? 

Alice.  Oh,  you  know ! 

Curt.  [Looking  around  with  horror]  I  beheve  almost 

Captain.  [Enters  from  the  right,  looking  wretched,  leaning 
on  a  ca7ie]  Curt,  may  I  have  a  talk  with  you — alone  ? 

Alice.  Is  it  about  that  departure  in  safety  ? 

Captain.  [Sits  down  at  the  sewing-table]  Curt,  will  you 
kindly  sit  down  here  by  me  a  little  while  ?  And,  Alice,  will 
you  please  grant  me  a  moment — of  peace! 

Alice.  What  is  up  now .?  New  signals!  [To  Curt]  Please 
be  seated.  [Curt  sits  doirn  reluctantly]  And  listen  to  the  words 
of  age  and  wisdom —  And  if  a  telegram  should  come — tip 
me  off!  [Goes  out  to  the  left. 

Captain.  [With  dignity,  after  a  pause]  Can  you  explain  a 
fate  like  mine,  like  ours  ? 

Curt.  No  more  than  I  can  explain  my  own! 

Captain.  Wliat  can  be  the  meaning  of  this  jumble  ? 

Curt.  In  my  better  moments  I  have  believed  that  just  this 
was  the  meaning — that  we  should  not  be  able  to  catch  a  mean- 
ing, and  yet  submit 

Captain.  Submit?  Without  a  fixed  point  outside  myself 
I  cannot  submit.  v 


208        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Curt.  Quite  right,  but  as  a  mathematician  you  should  be 
able  to  seek  that  unknown  point  when  several  known  ones  are 
given 

Captain,  I  have  sought  it,  and — I  have  not  found  it! 

Curt.  Then  you  have  made  some  mistake  in  your  calcula- 
tions— do  it  all  over  again ! 

Captain.  I  should  do  it  over  again  ?  Tell  me,  where  did 
you  get  your  resignation  ? 

Curt.  I  have  none  left.     Don't  overestimate  me. 

Captain.  As  you  may  have  noticed,  my  understanding  of 
the  art  of  living  has  been — elimination!  That  means:  wipe 
out  and  pass  on !  Very  early  in  life  I  made  myself  a  bag  into 
which  I  chucked  my  humiliations,  and  when  it  was  full  I 
dropped  it  into  the  sea.  I  don't  think  any  man  ever  suf- 
fered so  many  humiliations  as  I  have.  But  when  I  wiped 
them  out  and  passed  on  they  ceased  to  exist. 

Curt.  I  have  noticed  that  you  have  wrought  both  your  life 
and  your  environment  out  of  your  poetical  imagination. 

Captain.  How  could  I  have  lived  otherwise  ?  How  could 
I  have  endured  ?  [Puts  his  hand  over  his  heart. 

Curt.  How  are  you  doing .'' 

Captain.  Poorly.  [Pause]  Then  comes  a  moment  when 
the  faculty  for  what  you  call  poetical  imagination  gives  out. 
And  then  reality  leaps  forth  in  all  its  nakedness —  It  is 
frightful !  [He  is  now  speaking  in  a  voice  of  lachrymose  senility, 
and  with  his  lower  jaw  drooping]  Look  here,  my  dear  friend — 
[controls  himself  and  speaks  in  his  usual  voice]  forgive  me! — 
When  I  was  in  the  city  and  consulted  the  doctor  [now  the 
tearful  voice  returns]  he  said  that  I  was  played  out — [in  his 
usual  voice]  and  that  I  couldn't  live  much  longer. 

Curt.  Was  that  what  he  said  ? 

Captain.  [With  tearful  voice]  That's  what  he  said! 

Curt.  So  it  was  not  true  ? 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        209 

Captain.  What  ?     Oh — no,  that  was  not  true.  [Pause. 

Curt.  Was  the  rest  of  it  not  true  either  ? 

Captain.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Curt.  That  my  son  was  ordered  to  report  here  as  cadet  ? 

Captain.  I  never  heard  of  it. 

Curt.  Do  you  know — ^j'our  abih'ty  to  wipe  out  your  own 
misdeeds  is  miraculous! 

Captain.  I  don't  understand  what  you  are  talking  of. 

Curt.  Then  you  have  come  to  the  end! 

Captain.  Well,  there  is  not  much  left! 

Curt.  Tell  me,  perhaps  you  never  applied  for  that  divorce 
which  would  bring  your  wife  into  disgrace  .'* 

Captain.  Divorce  ?     No,  I  have  not  heard  of  it. 

Curt.  [Rising]  Will  you  admit,  then,  that  you  have  been 
lying  ? 

Captain.  You  employ  such  strong  words,  my  friend.  All 
of  us  need  forbearance. 

Curt.  Oh,  you  have  come  to  see  that  ? 

Captain.  [Firmly,  with  clear  voice]  Yes,  I  have  come  to  see 
that —  And  for  this  reason,  Curt,  please  forgive  me!  For- 
give everything! 

Curt.  That  was  a  manly  word!  But  I  have  nothing  to 
forgive  you.  And  I  am  not  the  man  you  believe  me  to  be. 
No  longer  now!  Least  of  all  one  worthy  of  receiving  your 
confessions ! 

Captain.  [With  clear  voice]  Life  seemed  so  peculiar — so 
contrary,  so  malignant — ever  since  my  childhood — and  people 
seemed  so  bad  that  I  grew  bad  also 

Curt.  [On  his  feet,  perturbed,  and  glancing  at  the  telegraph 
instrument]  Is  it  possible  to  close  off  an  instrument  like  that  ? 

Captain.  Hardly. 

Curt.  [With  increasing  alarm]  Who  is  Sergeant-Major 
Ostberg  ? 


210        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Captain.  An  honest  fellow,  but  something  of  a  busybody, 
I  should  say. 

Curt.  And  who  is  the  Quartermaster  ? 

Captain.  He  is  my  enemy,  of  course,  but  I  have  nothing 
bad  to  say  of  him. 

Curt.  [Loohing  oxd  throitgh  the  windoxc,  cohere  a  lantern  is 
seen  moinng  to  and  fro]  What  are  they  doing  with  the  lantern 
out  on  the  battery  ? 

Captain.  Do  you  see  a  lantern  ? 

Curt.  Yes,  and  people  moving  about. 

Captain.  I  suppose  it  is  what  we  call  a  service  squad. 

Curt.  What  is  that  ? 

Captain.  A  few  men  and  a  corporal.  Probably  some  poor 
wretch  that  has  to  be  locked  up. 

Curt.  Oh!  [Pause. 

Captain.  Now,  when  you  know  Alice,  how  do  you  like  her  ? 

Curt.  I  cannot  tell —  I  have  no  understanding  of  people 
at  all.  She  is  as  inexplicable  to  me  as  you  are,  or  as  I  am 
myself.  For  I  am  reaching  the  age  when  wisdom  makes  this 
acknowledgment:  I  know  nothing,  I  understand  nothing) 
But  when  I  observe  an  action,  I  like  to  get  at  the  motive  be- 
hind it.     Why  did  you  push  her  into  the  water  ? 

Captain.  I  don't  know.  It  merely  seemed  quite  natural 
to  me,  as  she  was  standing  on  the  pier,  that  she  ought  to  be  in 
the  water. 

Curt.  Have  you  ever  regretted  it  ? 

Captain.  Never! 

Curt.  That's  strange! 

Captain.  Of  course,  it  is!  So  strange  that  I  cannot  realise 
that  I  am  the  man  who  has  been  guilty  of  such  a  mean  act. 

Curt.  Have  you  not  expected  her  to  take  some  revenge  ? 

Captain.  Well,  she  seems  to  have  taken  it  in  full  measure; 
and  that,  too,  seems  no  less  natural  to  me. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        211 

Curt.  What  has  so  suddenly  brought  you  to  this  cynical 
resignation  ? 

Captain.  Since  I  looked  death  in  the  face,  life  has  pre- 
sented itself  from  a  different  viewpoint.  Tell  me,  if  you  were 
to  judge  between  Alice  and  myself,  whom  would  you  place 
in  the  right  ? 

Curt.  Neither  of  you.  But  to  both  of  you  I  should  give 
endless  compassion — perhaps  a  little  more  of  it  to  you ! 

Captain.  Give  me  your  hand.  Curt! 

Curt.  [Gives  him  one  hand  and  puts  the  other  one  on  the 
Captain's  s/iou/(Zer]  Old  boy! 

Alice.  [In  from  the  left,  carrying  a  sunshade]  Well,  how 
harmonious!  Oh,  friendship!  Has  there  been  no  telegram 
yet? 

Curt.  [Coldly]  No. 

Alice.  This  delay  makes  me  impatient,  and  when  I  grow 
impatient  I  push  matters  along —  Look,  Curt,  how  I  give 
him  the  final  bullet.  And  now  he'll  bite  the  grass !  First,  I 
load —  I  know  all  about  rifle  practice,  the  famous  rifle  prac- 
tice of  which  less  than  5,000  copies  were  sold — and  then  I 
aim — fire !  [She  takes  aim  with  her  sunshade]  How  is  your 
new  wife  ?  The  young,  beautiful,  unknown  one  ?  You  don't 
know!  But  I  know  how  my  lover  is  doing.  [Puts  her  arms 
around  the  neck  of  Curt  and  kisses  him;  he  thrusts  her  away 
from  himself]  He  is  well,  although  still  a  little  bashful!  You 
wretch,  whom  I  have  never  loved — you,  who  were  too  con- 
ceited to  be  jealous — ^you  never  saw  how  I  was  leading  you 
by  the  nose! 

The  Captain  dratcs  the  sabre  and  makes  a  leap  at  her, 
aiming  at  her  several  futile  blows  that  only  hit  the 
furniture. 

Alice.  Help!    Help! 

[Curt  does  not  move. 


212        THE    DANCE    OF   DEATH 

Captain.  [Falls  with  the  sabre  in  his  haiid]  Judith,  avenge 
me! 

Alice.  Hooray!    He's  dead! 

[Curt  icithdraws  toicard  the  door  in  the  bacJcgrormd. 

Captain.  [Gets  on  his  feet]  Not  yet!  [Sheathes  the  sabre  and 
sits  down  in  the  easy-chair  by  the  seiving-table]  Judith !    Judith ! 

Alice.  [Drawing  nearer  to  Curt]  Now  I  go — with  you! 

Curt.  [Pushes  her  back  with  svch  force  that  she  sinks  to  her 
knees]  Go  back  to  the  hell  whence  you  came !  Good-bye  for 
ever!  [Goes  to  the  door. 

Captain.  Don't  leave  me  Curt;  she  will  kill  me! 

Alice.  Don't  desert  me,  Curt — don't  desert  us! 

Curt.  Good-bye!  [Goes  out. 

Alice.  [With  a  sudden  change  of  attitude]  The  wretch! 
That's  a  friend  for  you ! 

Captain,  [Softly]  Forgive  me,  Alice,  and  come  here — come 
quick! 

Alice.  [Over  to  the  Captain]  That's  the  worst  rascal  and 
hypocrite  I  have  met  in  my  life!  Do  you  know,  you  are  a 
man  after  all! 

Captain.  Listen,  Alice!     I  cannot  live  much  longer. 

Alice.  Is  that  so  ? 
Captain.  The  doctor  has  said  so. 
Alice.  Then  there  was  no  truth  in  the  rest  either  ? 
Captain.  No. 

Alice.  [In  despair]  Oh,  what  have  I  done ! 
Captain.  There  is  help  for  everything. 
Alice.  No,  this  is  beyond  helping! 

Captain.  Nothing  is  beyond  helping,  if  you  only  wipe  it 
out  and  pass  on. 

Alice.  But  the  telegram — the  telegram! 
Captain.  Which  telegram  ? 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        213 

Alice.  [On  her  knees  beside  the  Captain]  Are  we  then 
cast  out  ?  Must  this  happen  ?  I  have  sprung  a  mine  under 
myself,  under  us.  Why  did  you  have  to  tell  untruths  ?  And 
why  should  that  man  come  here  to  tempt  me?  We  are  lost! 
Your  magnanimity  might  have  helped  everything,  forgiven 
everything! 

Captain.  What  is  it  that  cannot  be  forgiven  ?  What  is  it 
that  I  have  not  already  forgiven  you  ? 

Alice.  You  are  right — but  there  is  no  help  for  this. 

Captain.  I  cannot  guess  it,  although  I  know  your  ingenuity 
when  it  comes  to  villanies ■ 

Alice.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  get  out  of  this,  I  should  care  for 
you —     I  should  love  you,  Edgar! 

Captain.  Listen  to  me!     Where  do  I  stand  ? 

Alice.  Don't  you  think  anybody  can  help  us — well,  no 
man  can! 

Captain.  Who  could  then  help  ? 

Alice.  [Looking  the  Captain  straight  in  the  eye]  I  don't 
know —  Think  of  it,  what  is  to  become  of  the  children  with 
their  name  dishonoured ? 

Captain.  Have  you  dishonoured  that  name  ? 

Alice.  Not  I!  Not  I!  And  then  they  must  leave  school! 
And  as  they  go  out  into  the  world,  they  will  be  lonely  as  we, 
and  cruel  as  we —  Then  you  didn't  meet  Judith  either,  I 
understand  now  ? 

Captain.  No,  but  wipe  it  out! 

The  telegraph  receiver  clicks.     Alice  flies  up. 

Alice.  [Screams]  Now  ruin  is  overtaking  us!  [To  the  Cap- 
tain] Don't  listen! 

Captain.  [Quietly]  I  am  not  going  to  listen,  dear  child — 
just  calm  yourself! 

Alice.  [Standing  by  the  instrument,  raises  herself  on  tip- 


214        THE   DANCE    OF   DEATH 

toe  in  order  to  look  out  through  the  window]  Don't  listen! 
Don't  listen! 

Captain.  {Hohling  his  hands  over  his  ears]  Lisa,  child,  I 
am  stopping  up  my  ears. 

Alice.   [On  her  knees,  with  lifted  hands]   God,  help   lis! 

The  squad  is  coming —  [Weeping  and  sobbing]  God  in  heaven ! 

She  appears  to  be  moving  her  lips  as  if  in  silent  prayer. 

The  telegraph  receiver  continues  to  click  for  a  while  and 

a  long  tvhite  strip  of  paper  seems  to  crawl  oid  of  the 

instrument.     Then  co7nplete  silence  prevails  once  more. 

Alice.  [Rises,  tears  off  the  paper  strip,  and  reads  it  in  silence. 
Then  she  turns  her  eyes  upward  for  a  inoment.  Goes  over 
to  the  Captain  and  kisses  him  on  the  forehead]  That  is  over 
now!     It  was  nothing! 

Sits  doicn  in  the  other  chair,  puts  her  handkerchief  to 
her  face,  and  breaks  into  a  inolent  spell  of  weeping. 

Captain.  What  kind  of  secrets  are  these  ? 

Alice.  Don't  ask!     It  is  over  now! 

Captain.  As  you  please,  child. 

Alice.  You  would  not  have  spoken  like  that  three  days 
ago — what  has  done  it  ? 

Captain.  Well,  dear,  when  I  fell  down  that  first  time,  I 
went  a  little  way  on  the  other  side  of  the  grave.  What  I  saw 
has  been  forgotten,  but  the  impression  of  it  still  remains. 

Alice.  And  it  was  ? 

Captain.  A  hope — for  something  better! 

Alice.  Something  better  ? 

Captain.  Yes.  That  this  could  be  the  real  life,  I  have,  in 
fact,  never  believed:  it  is  death — or  something  still  worse! 

Alice.  And  we 

Captain.  Have  probably  been  set  to  torment  each  other — 
so  it  seems  at  least ! 

Alice.  Have  we  tormented  each  other  enough  ? 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        215 

Captain.  Yes,  I  think  so!  And  upset  things!  [Looks 
around]  Suppose  we  put  things  to  rights  ?     And  clean  house  ? 

Alice.  Yes,  if  it  can  be  done. 

Captain.  [Gets  up  to  survey  the  rooni]  It  can't  be  done  in 
one  day — no,  it  can't! 

Alice.  In  two,  then!    Many  days! 

Captain.  Let  us  hope  so!  [Paxise.  Sits  down  again]  So 
you  didn't  get  free  this  time  after  all!  But  then,  you  didn't 
get  me  locked  up  either!  [Alice  looks  staggered]  Yes,  I  know 
you  wanted  to  put  me  in  prison,  but  I  wipe  it  out.  I  suppose 
you  have  done  worse  than  that —  [Alice  is  speechless]  And 
I  was  innocent  of  those  defalcations. 

Alice.  And  now  you  intend  me  to  become  your  nurse  ? 

Captain.  If  you  are  willing! 

Alice.  What  else  could  I  do  ? 

Captain.  I  don't  know! 

Alice.  [Sits  down,  numbed  and  crushed]  These  are  the  eter- 
nal torments !     Is  there,  then ,  no  end  to  them  ? 

Captain.  Yes,  if  we  are  patient.  Perhaps  life  begins  when 
death  comes. 

Alice.  If  it  were  so!  [Pause. 

Captain.  You  think  Curt  a  hypocrite  ? 

Alice.  Of  course  I  do! 

Captain.  And  I  don't!  But  all  who  come  near  us  turn  evil 
and  go  their  way.  Curt  was  weak,  and  the  evil  is  strong! 
[Pause]  How  commonplace  life  has  become!  Formerly  blows 
were  struck;  now  you  shake  your  fist  at  the  most!  I  am 
fairly  certain  that,  three  months  from  now,  we  shall  celebrate 
our  silver  wedding — with  Curt  as  best  man— and  with  the 
Doctor  and  Gerda  among  the  guests.  The  Quartermaster  will 
make  the  speech  and  the  Sergeant-Major  will  lead  the  cheer- 
ing. And  if  I  know  the  Colonel  right,  he  will  come  on  his 
own  invitation —    Yes,  you  may  laugh!     But  do  you  recall 


216        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

the  silver  wedding  of  Adolph — in  the  Fusihers  ?  The  bride 
had  to  carry  her  wedding  ring  on  the  right  hand,  because  the 
groom  in  a  tender  moment  had  chopped  off  her  left  ring  finger 
with  his  dirk.  [Alice  puts  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth  in 
order  to  repress  her  laitghter]  Are  you  crying  ?  No,  I  beheve 
you  are  Jaughing!  Yes,  child,  partly  we  weep  and  partly 
we  laugh.  Which  is  the  right  thing  to  do? — Don't  ask  me! 
The  other  day  I  read  in  a  newspaper  that  a  man  had  been 
divorced  seven  times — which  means  that  he  had  been  married 
seven  times — and  finally,  at  the  age  of  ninety-eight,  he  ran 
away  with  his  first  wife  and  married  her  again.  Such  is 
love!  If  life  be  serious,  or  merely  a  joke,  is  more  than  I 
can  decide.  Often  it  is  most  painful  when  a  joke,  and  its 
seriousness  is  after  all  more  agreeable  and  peaceful.  But 
when  at  last  you  try  to  be  serious,  somebody  comes  and  plays 
a  joke  on  you — as  Curt,  for  instance!  Do  you  want  a  silver 
wedding?  [Alice  remains  silent\  Oh,  say  yes!  They  will 
laugh  at  us,  but  what  does  it  matter  ?  We  may  laugh  also, 
or  keep  serious,  as  the  occasion  may  require. 

Alice.  Well,  all  right! 

Captain.  Silver  wedding,  then !  [iJwmjr]  Wipe  out  and  pass 
on !    Therefore,  let  us  pass  on ! 

Curtain. 


THE  DANCE  OF  DE4TH 


PART   II 


CHARACTERS 

Edgar 

Al.ice 

Curt 

Allan,  the  son  of  Cttrt 

Judith,  the  daughter  of  Edgab 

The  Lieutenant 


THE    DANCE    OF   DEATH 

PART    II 

A  rectangular  drawing-room  in  white  and  gold.     The  rear  wall 
is  broken  by  several  French  windows  reaching  down  to 
the  floor.     These  stand  open,  revealing  a  garden  terrace 
oidside.     Along  this  terrace,  serving  as  a  public  promenade, 
runs  a  stone  balustrade,  on  which  are  ranged  pots  of  blue 
and  white  faience,  with  petunias  arid  scarlet  geraniums  in 
them.     Beyond,  in  the  background,  can  be  seen  the  shore 
battery  with  a  sentry  pacing  back  and  forth.     In  the  far 
distance,  the  open  sea. 
At  the  left  of  the  drawing-room  stands  a  sofa  with  gilded  wood- 
work.    In  front  of  it  are  a  table  and  chairs.     At  the  right 
is  a  grand  piano,  a  writing-table,  and  an  open  fireplace. 
In  the  foreground,  an  American  easy-chair. 
By  the  tvriting-table  is  a  standing  lamp  of  copper  with  a  table 

attached  to  it. 
On  the  walls  are  several  old-fashioned  oil  paintings. 

Allan  is  sitting  at  the  writing-table,  engrossed  in  some 
mathematical  problem.  Judith  enters  from  the  back- 
ground, in  summer  dress,  short  skid,  hair  in  a  braid 
down  her  back,  hat  in  one  hand  and  tennis  racket  in 
the  other.  She  stops  in  the  doorway.  Allan  rises, 
serious  and  respectful. 
Judith.  [In  serious  but  friendly  tojie]  Why  don't  you  come 
and  play  tennis  ? 

Allan.  [Bashful,  struggling  with  his  emotion^  I  am  very 

busy • 

219 


220        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Judith.  Didn't  jou  see  that  I  had  made  my  bicycle  point 
toward  the  oak,  and  not  away  from  it  ? 

Allan.  Yes,  I  saw  it. 

Judith,  Well,  what  does  it  mean  ? 

Allan.  It  means — that  you  want  me  to  come  and  play 
tennis — but  my  duty — I  have  some  problems  to  work  out— 
and  your  father  is  a  rather  exacting  teacher 

Judith.  Do  you  like  him  ? 

Allan.  Yes,  I  do.  He  takes  such  interest  in  all  his 
pupils 

Judith.  He  takes  an  interest  in  everything  and  every- 
body.    Won't  you  come  ? 

Allan.  You  know  I  should  like  to — but  I  must  not! 

Judith.  I'll  ask  papa  to  give  you  leave. 

Allan.  Don't  do  that.     It  will  only  cause  talk. 

Judith.  Don't  you  think  I  can  manage  him  ?  He  wants 
what  I  want. 

Allan.  I  suppose  that  is  because  you  are  so  hard. 

Judith.  You  should  be  hard  also. 

Allan.  I  don't  belong  to  the  wolf  family. 

Judith.  Then  you  are  a  sheep. 

Allan.  Rather  that. 

Judith.  Tell  me  why  you  don't  want  to  come  and  play 
tennis .'' 

Allan.  You  know  it. 

Judith.  Tell  me  anyhow.     The  Lieutenant 

Allan.  Yes,  you  don't  care  for  me  at  all,  but  you  cannot 
enjoy  yourself  with  the  Lieutenant  unless  I  am  present,  so 
you  can  see  me  suffer. 

Judith.  Am  I  as  cruel  as  that  ?     I  didn't  know  it. 

All.\n.  Well,  now  you  know  it. 

Judith,  Then  I  shall  do  better  hereafter,  for  I  don't  want 
to  be  cruel,  I  don't  want  to  be  bad — in  your  eyes. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        221 

Allan.  You  say  this  only  to  fasten  your  hold  on  me.  I 
am  already  your  slave,  but  it  does  not  satisfy  you.  The  slave 
must  be  tortured  and  thrown  to  the  wild  beasts.  You  have 
already  that  other  fellow  in  your  clutches — what  do  you  want 
with  me  then  }    Let  me  go  my  own  way,  and  you  can  go  yours. 

Judith.  Do  you  send  me  away  ?  [Allan  does  not  annocr\ 
Then  I  go !  As  second  cousins,  we  shall  have  to  meet  now 
and  then,  but  I  am  not  going  to  bother  you  any  longer. 

[Allan  sits  down  at  the  table  and  returns  to  his  problem. 

Judith.  [Instead  of  going  awatj,  comes  down  the  stage  and 
approaches  gradually  the  table  where  Allan  is  sitting]  Don't 
be  afraid,  I  am  going  at  once —  I  wanted  only  to  see  how  the 
Master  of  Quarantine  lives —  [TmoJcs  around]  White  and  gold 
— a  Bechstein  grand — well,  well!  We  are  still  in  the  fort 
since  papa  was  pensioned — in  the  tower  where  mamma  has 
been  kept  twenty-five  years — and  we  are  there  on  sufferance 
at  that.     You — ^you  are  rich 

Allan.  [Calmly]  We  are  not  rich. 

Judith.  So  you  say,  but  you  are  always  wearing  fine  clothes 
— but  whatever  you  wear,  for  that  matter,  is  becoming  to 
you.     Do  you  hear  what  I  say?  [Draiving  nearer. 

Allan.  [Submissively]  I  do. 

Judith.  How  can  you  hear  when  you  keep  on  figuring,  or 
whatever  you  are  doing  ? 

Allan.  I  don't  use  my  eyes  to  listen  with. 

Judith.  Your  eyes — have  you  ever  looked  at  them  in  the 
mirror  ? 

Allan.  Go  away! 

Judith.  You  despise  me,  do  you  ? 

Allan.  Why,  girl,  I  am  not  thinking  of  you  at  all. 

Judith.  [Still  nearer]  Archimedes  is  deep  in  his  figures 
when  the  soldier  comes  and  cuts  him  down. 

[Stirs  his  papers  about  with  the  racket. 


222        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Allan.  Don't  touch  my  papers ! 

Judith.  That's  what  Archimedes  said  also.  Now  you  are 
thinking  something  foolish — you  are  thinking  that  I  can  not 
live  without  you 

Allan.  Why  can't  you  leave  me  alone  ? 

Judith.  Be  courteous,  and  I'll  help  you  with  your  exami- 
nations  

Allan.  You  ? 

Judith.  Yes,  I  know  the  examiners 

Allan.  [Sternly]  And  what  of  it  ? 

Judith.  Don't  you  know  that  one  should  stand  well  with 
the  teachers  ? 

Allan.  Do  you  mean  your  father  and  the  Lieu  tenant  .5* 

Judith.  And  the  Colonel! 

Allan.  And  then  you  mean  that  your  protection  would 
enable  me  to  shirk  my  work  ? 

Judith.  You  are  a  bad  translator 

Allan.  Of  a  bad  original 

Judith.  Be  ashamed! 

Allan.  So  I  am — both  on  your  behalf  and  my  own!  I 
am  ashamed  of  having  listened  to  you —     Why  don't  you  go  ? 

Judith.  Because  I  know  you  appreciate  my  company — 
Yes,  you  manage  always  to  pass  by  my  window.  You  have 
always  some  errand  that  brings  you  into  the  city  with  the  same 
boat  that  I  take.  You  cannot  go  for  a  sail  without  having  me 
to  look  after  the  jib. 

Allan.  But  a  young  girl  shouldn't  say  that  kind  of  things! 

Judith.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  am  a  child  .' 

Allan.  Sometimes  you  are  a  good  child,  and  sometimes  a 
bad  woman.     Me  you  seem  to  have  picked  to  be  your  sheep. 

Judith.  You  are  a  sheep,  and  that's  why  I  am  going  to  pro- 
tect you. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        223 

Allan.  [Rising]  The  wolf  makes  a  poor  shepherd!  You 
want  to  eat  me — that  is  the  secret  of  it,  I  suppose.  You  want 
to  put  your  beautiful  eyes  in  pawn  to  get  possession  of  my 
head. 

Judith.  Oh,  you  have  been  looking  at  my  eyes  ?  I  didn't 
expect  that  much  courage  of  you. 

Allan  collects  his  papers  and  starts  to  go  out  toward  the 

right. 
Judith  places  herself  in  front  of  the  door. 

Allan.  Get  out  of  my  way,  or 

Judith.  Or? 

Allan.  If  you  were  a  boy — bah!    But  you  are  a  girl. 

Judith.  And  then  ? 

Allan.  If  you  had  any  pride  at  all,  you  would  be  gone,  as 
you  may  regard  yourself  as  shown  the  door. 

Judith.  I'll  get  back  at  you  for  that! 

Allan.  I  don't  doubt  it! 

Judith.  [Goes  enraged  toward  the  backgroimd]  I — shall — • 
get — back — at  you  for  that!  [Goes  out. 

Curt.  [Fitters  from  the  left]  Where  are  you  going,  AUan  ? 

Allan.  Oh,  is  that  you  ? 

Curt.  Who  was  it  that  left  in  such  hurry — so  that  the 
bushes  shook  ? 

Allan.  It  was  Judith. 

Curt.  She  is  a  little  impetuous,  but  a  fine  girl. 

Allan.  When  a  girl  is  cruel  and  rude,  she  is  always  said 
to  be  a  fine  girl. 

Curt.  Don't  be  so  severe,  Allan!  Are  you  not  satisfied 
with  your  new  relatives  ? 

Allan.  I  like  Uncle  Edgar 

Curt.  Yes,  he  has  many  good  sides.  How  about  your 
other  teachers — the  Lieutenant,  for  instance  ? 


224        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Allan.  He's  so  uncertain.  Sometimes  he  seems  to  have  a 
grudge  against  me. 

Curt.  Oh,  no !  You  just  go  here  and  make  people  "seem  " 
this  or  that.  Don't  brood,  but  look  after  your  own  affairs,  do 
what  is  proper,  and  leave  others  to  their  own  concerns. 

Allax.  So  I  do,  but — they  won't  leave  me  alone.  They 
pull  you  in — as  the  cuttlefish  down  at  the  landing— they  don't 
bite,  but  they  stir  up  vortices  tliat  suck 

Curt.  You  have  some  tendency  to  melancholia,  I  think. 
Don't  you  feel  at  home  here  with  me  ?  Is  there  anything  you 
miss? 

Allan.  I  have  never  been  better  off,  but — there  is  some- 
thing here  that  smothers  me. 

Curt.  Here  by  the  sea  ?     Are  you  not  fond  of  the  sea  ? 

Allan.  Yes,  the  open  sea.  But  along  the  shores  you  find 
eelgrass,  cuttlefish,  jell^'fish,  sea-nettles,  or  whatever  they  are 
called. 

Curt.  You  shouldn't  stay  indoors  so  much.  Go  out  and 
play  tennis. 

Allan.  Oh,  that's  no  fun ! 

Curt.  You  are  angry  with  Judith,  I  guess  ? 

Allan.  Judith? 

Curt.  You  are  so  exacting  toward  people — it  is  not  wise, 
for  then  vou  become  isolated. 

Allan.  I  am  not  exacting,  but —  It  feels  as  if  I  were  lying 
at  the  bottom  of  a  pile  of  wood  and  had  to  wait  my  turn  to  get 
into  the  fire — and  it  weighs  on  me — all  that  is  above  weighs 
me  down. 

Curt.  Bide  your  turn.     The  pile  grows  smaller 

Allan.  Yes,  but  so  slowly,  so  slowly.  And  in  the  mean- 
time I  lie  here  and  grow  mouldy. 

Curt.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  be  young.  And  yet  you  young 
cmes  are  envied. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        225 

Allan.  Are  we  ?     Would  you  change  ? 

Curt.  No,  thanks! 

Allan.  Do  you  know  what  is  worse  than  anything  else  ? 
It  is  to  sit  still  and  keep  silent  while  the  old  ones  talk  non- 
sense— I  know  that  I  am  better  informed  than  they  on  some 
matters — and  yet  I  must  keep  silent.  Well,  pardon  me,  I  am 
not  counting  you  among  the  old. 

Curt.  Why  not  ? 

Allan.  Perhaps  because  we  have  only  just  now  become 
acquainted 

Curt.  And  because — your  ideas  of  me  have  undergone  a 
change  ? 

Allan.  Yes. 

Curt.  During  the  years  we  were  separated,  I  suppose  you 
didn't  always  think  of  me  in  a  friendly  way  ? 

Allan.  No. 

Curt.  Did  you  ever  see  a  picture  of  me  ? 

Allan.  One,  and  it  was  very  unfavourable. 

Curt.  And  old-looking  ? 

Allan.  Yes. 

Curt.  Ten  years  ago  my  hair  turned  gray  in  a  single  night 
— it  has  since  then  resumed  its  natural  color  without  my  doing 
anything  for  it —  Let  us  talk  of  something  else!  There 
comes  your  aunt — my  cousin.     How  do  you  like  her  .J* 

Allan.  I  don't  want  to  tell! 

Curt.  Then  I  shall  not  ask  you. 

Alice.  [Enters  dressed  in  a  very  light-colored  walking-suit 
and  carrying  a  S2mshade]  Good  morning.  Curt. 

[Gives  him  a  glance  signifying  that  Allan  should  leave. 

Curt.  [To  Allan]  Leave  us,  please. 
Allan  goes  out  to  the  right. 
Alice  takes  a  seat  on  the  sofa  to  the  left. 
Curt  sits  down  on  a  chair  near  her. 


226        THE   DANCE   OF    DEATH 

Alice.  [In  some  confusion]  He  will  be  here  in  a  moment,  so 
you  need  not  feel  embarrassed. 

Curt.  And  why  should  I  ? 

Alice.  You,  with  your  strictness 

Curt.  Toward  myself,  yes 

Alice.  Of  course —  Once  I  forgot  myself,  when  in  you  I 
saw  the  liberator,  but  you  kept  your  self-control — and  for  that 
reason  we  have  a  right  to  forget — what  has  never  been. 

Curt.  Forget  it  then ! 

Alice.  However —     I  don't  think  he  has  forgotten 

Curt.  You  are  thinking  of  that  night  when  his  heart  gave 
out  and  he  fell  on  the  floor — and  when  you  rejoiced  too  quickly, 
thinking  him  already  dead  ? 

Alice.  Yes.  Since  then  he  has  recovered;  but  when  he 
gave  up  drinking,  he  learned  to  keep  silent,  and  now  he  is  ter- 
rible.    He  is  up  to  something  that  I  cannot  make  out 

Curt.  Your  husband,  Alice,  is  a  harmless  fool  who  has 
shown  me  all  sorts  of  kindnesses 

Alice.  Beware  of  his  kindnesses.     I  know  them. 

Curt.  Well,  well 

Alice.  He  has  then  blinded  you  also  ?  Can  you  not  see 
the  danger  ?     Don't  you  notice  the  snares  ? 

Curt.  No. 

Alice,  Then  your  ruin  is  certain. 

Curt.  Oh,  mercy! 

Alice.  Think  only,  I  have  to  sit  here  and  see  disaster 
stalking  you  like  a  cat — I  point  at  it,  but  you  cannot  see  it. 

Curt.  Allan,  with  his  unspoiled  vision,  cannot  see  it  either. 
He  sees  nothing  but  Judith,  for  that  matter,  and  this  seems  to 
me  a  safeguard  of  our  good  relationship. 

Alice.  Do  you  know  Judith  .'* 

Curt.  A  flirtatious  little  thing,  with  a  braid  down  her  back 
and  rather  too  short  skirts 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        227 

Alice.  Exactly!  But  the  other  day  I  saw  her  dressed  up 
in  long  skirts — and  then  she  was  a  young  lady — and  not  so 
very  young  either,  when  her  hair  was  put  up. 

Curt.  She  is  somewhat  precocious,  I  admit. 

Alice.  And  she  is  playing  with  Allan. 

Curt.  That's  all  right,  so  long  as  it  remains  play. 

Alice,  So  that  is  all  right  ? —  Now  Edgar  will  be  here  soon, 
and  he  will  take  the  easy-chair — he  loves  it  with  such  passion 
that  he  could  steal  it. 

Curt.  Why,  he  can  have  it! 

Alice.  Let  him  sit  over  there,  and  we'll  stay  here.  And 
when  he  talks — he  is  always  talkative  in  the  morning — when 
he  talks  of  insignificant  things,  I'll  translate  them  for  you 

Curt.  Oh,  my  dear  Alice,  you  are  too  deep,  far  too  deep. 
What  could  I  have  to  fear  as  long  as  I  look  after  my  quar- 
antine properly  and  otherwise  behave  decently  ? 

Alice.  You  believe  in  justice  and  honour  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing. 

Curt,  Yes,  and  it  is  what  experience  has  taught  me.  Once 
I  believed  the  very  opposite — and  paid  dearly  for  it! 

Alice,  Now  he's  coming! 

Curt.  I  have  never  seen  you  so  frightened  before. 

Alice.  My  bravery  was  nothing  but  ignorance  of  the 
danger. 

Curt.  Danger?     Soon  you'll  have  me  frightened  too! 

Alice,  Oh,  if  I  only  could —    There! 

The  Captain  enters  from  the  background,  in  civilian 
dress,  black  Prince  Albert  buttoned  all  the  way,  mili- 
tary cap,  and  a  cane  with  silver  handle.  He  greets 
them  with  a  nod  and  goes  straight  to  the  easy-chair, 
where  he  sits  doxcn. 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  Let  him  speak  first. 


228        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Captain.  This  is  a  splendid  chair  you  have  here,  dear 
Curt;  perfectly  splendid. 

Curt.  I'll  give  it  to  you,  if  you  will  accept  it. 

Captain.  That  was  not  what  I  meant 

Curt.  But  I  mean  it  seriously.  IIow  much  have  I  not 
recei\ed  from  you  ? 

Captain.  [Garndoiisly]  Oh,  nonsense!  And  when  I  sit 
here,  I  can  overlook  the  whole  island,  all  the  walks;  I  can  see 
all  the  people  on  their  verandahs,  all  the  ships  on  the  sea,  that 
are  coming  in  and  going  out.  You  have  really  happened  on 
the  best  piece  of  this  island,  which  is  certainly  not  an  island  of 
the  blessed.  Or  what  do  you  say,  Alice?  Yes,  they  call  it 
"Little  Hell,"  and  here  Curt  has  built  himself  a  paradise, 
but  without  an  Eve,  of  course,  for  when  she  appeared,  then 
the  paradise  came  to  an  end.  I  say — do  you  know  that  this 
was  a  royal  hunting  lodge  ? 

Curt.  So  I  have  heard. 

Captain.  You  live  royally,  you,  but,  if  I  may  say  so  my- 
self, you  have  me  to  thank  for  it. 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  There — now  he  wants  to  steal  you. 

Curt.  I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  good  deal. 

Captain.  Fudge!    Tell  me,  did  you  get  the  wine  cases? 

Curt.  Yes. 

Captain.  And  you  are  satisfied  ? 

Curt.  Quite  satisfied,  and  you  may  tell  your  dealer  so. 

Captain.  His  goods  are  always  prime  quality 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  At  second-rate  prices,  and  you  have  to 
pay  the  difference. 

Captain.  What  did  you  say,  Alice  ? 

Alice,  I  ?     Nothing ! 

Captain.  Well,  when  this  quarantine  station  was  about  to 
be  established,  I  had  in  mind  applying  for  the  position — and 
so  I  made  a  study  of  quarantine  methods. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        2£a 

Alice.  [To Curt]  Now  he's  lying! 

Captain.  [Boastfully]  And  I  did  not  share  the  antiquated 
ideas  concerning  disinfection  which  were  then  accepted  by  the 
government.  For  I  placed  myself  on  tlie  side  of  the  Neptunists 
— so  called  because  they  emphasise  the  use  of  water 

Curt.  Beg  your  pardon,  but  I  remember  distinctly  that  it 
was  I  who  preached  water,  and  you  fire,  at  that  time. 

Captain.  I.'     Nonsense! 

Alice.  [Aloud]  Yes,  I  remember  that,  too. 

Captain.  You  } 

Curt.  I  remember  it  so  much  the  better  because 

Captain.  [Cutting  him  short]  Well,  it's  possible,  but  it 
does  not  matter.  [Raising  his  voice]  However — we  have  now 
reached  a  point  where  a  new  state  of  affairs — [To  Curt,  who 
wants  to  interrupt]  just  a  moment! — has  begun  to  prevail — 
and  when  the  methods  of  quarantining  are  about  to  become 
revolutionized. 

Curt.  By  the  by,  do  you  know  who  is  writing  those  stupid 
articles  in  that  periodical .'' 

Cai»tain.  [Flushing]  No,  I  don't  know,  but  why  do  you 
call  them  stupid  ? 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  Look  out!    It  is  he  who  writes  them. 

Curt.  He? —  [To  the  Captain]  Not  very  well  advised,  at 
least. 

Captain.  Well,  are  you  the  man  to  judge  of  that  ? 

Alice.  Are  we  going  to  have  a  quarrel  ? 

Curt.  Not  at  all. 

Captain.  It  is  hard  to  keep  peace  on  this  island,  but  we 
ought  to  set  a  good  example 

Curt.  Yes,  can  you  explain  this  to  me  ?  When  I  came 
here  I  made  friends  with  all  the  officials  and  became  especially 
intimate  with  the  regimental  auditor — as  intimate  as  men  are 
likely  to  become  at  our  age.     And  then,  in  a  little  while — it 


230        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

was  shortly  after  your  recovery — one  after  another  began  to 
grow  cold  toward  me — and  yesterday  the  auditor  avoided  me 
on  the  promenade.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  it  hurt  me!  [The 
Captain  remains  silent]  Have  you  noticed  any  ill-feeling 
toward  yourself  ? 

Captain.  No,  on  the  contrary. 

AiJCE.  [To  Curt]  Don't  you  understand  that  he  has  been 
stealing  your  friends  ? 

Curt.  [To  the  Captain]  I  wondered  whether  it  might  have 
anything  to  do  with  this  new  stock  issue  to  which  I  refused  to 
subscribe. 

Captain.  No,  no —  But  can  you  tell  me  why  you  didn't 
subscribe  ? 

Curt.  Because  I  have  already  put  my  small  savings  into 
your  soda  factory.  And  also  because  a  new  issue  means  that 
the  old  stock  is  shaky. 

Captain.  [Preoccupied]  That's  a  splendid  lamp  you  have. 
Where  did  you  get  it  ? 

Curt.  In  the  city,  of  course. 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  Look  out  for  your  lamp! 

Curt.  [To  the  Captain]  You  must  not  think  that  I  am 
ungrateful  or  distrustful,  Edgar. 

Captain.  No,  but  it  shows  small  confidence  to  withdraw 
from  an  undertaking  which  you  have  helped  to  start. 

Curt.  Why,  ordinary  prudence  bids  everybody  save  him- 
self and  what  is  his. 

Captain,  Save  ?  Is  there  any  danger  then  ?  Do  you  think 
anybody  wants  to  rob  you  ? 

Curt.  Why  such  sharp  words  ? 

Captain.  Were  you  not  satisfied  when  I  helped  you  to  place 
your  money  at  six  per  cent.  ? 

Curt.  Yes,  and  even  grateful. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        231 

Captain.  You  are  not  grateful — it  is  not  in  your  nature, 
but  this  you  cannot  help. 

Alice.  [To Curt]  Listen  to  him! 

Curt.  My  nature  has  shortcomings  enough,  and  my  strug- 
gle against  them  has  not  been  very  successful,  but  I  do  rec- 
ognise obligations 

Capi'ain.  Show  it  then !  [Reaches  out  his  hand  to  pick  up 
a  newspaper]  Why,  what  is  this  .'  A  death  notice  ?  [Reads] 
The  Health  Commissioner  is  dead. 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  Now  he  is  speculating  in  the  corpse 

Captain.  [As  if  to  himself]  This  is  going  to  bring  about 
certain — changes 

Curt.  In  what  respect  ? 

Captain.  [Rising]  That  remains  to  be  seen. 

Alice.  [To  the  Captain]  Where  are  you  going.' 

Captain.  I  think  I'll  have  to  go  to  the  city —  [Catches  sight 
of  a  letter  on  the  tcriting-iahle,  picks  it  up  as  if  unconsciously, 
reads  the  address,  and  puts  it  back]  Oh,  I  hope  you  will  pardon 
my  absent-mindedness. 

Curt.  No  harm  done. 

Captain.  Why,  that's  Allan's  drawing  case.  Where  is  the 
boy.? 

Curt.  He  is  out  playing  with  the  girls. 

Captain.  That  big  boy  ?  I  don't  like  it.  And  Judith  must 
not  be  running  about  like  that.  You  had  better  keep  an 
eye  on  your  young  gentleman,  and  I'll  look  after  my  young 
lady.  [Goes  over  to  the  piano  and  strikes  a  few  notes]  Splendid 
tone  in  this  instrument.     A  Steinbech,  isn't  it  ? 

Curt.  A  Bechstein. 

Captain.  Yes,  you  are  well  fixed.  Thank  me  for  bringing 
you  here. 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  He  lies,  for  he  tried  to  keep  you  away. 


232        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Captain.  Well,  good-bye  for  a  while.  I  am  going  to  take 
the  next  boat. 

[Scrutinises  the  paintings  07i  the  walls  as  he  goes  out. 

Alice.  Well? 

Curt.  Well? 

Alice,  I  can't  see  through  his  plans  yet.  But — tell  me 
one  thing.  This  envelope  he  looked  at — from  whom  is  the 
letter  ? 

Curt.  I  am  sorry  to  admit — it  was  my  one  secret. 

Alice.  And  he  ferreted  it  out.  Can  you  see  that  he  knows 
witchery,  as  I  have  told  you  before  ?  Is  there  anything  printed 
on  the  envelope  ? 

Curt.  Yes— "The  Citizens'  Union." 

Alice.  Then  he  has  guessed  your  secret.  You  want  to 
get  into  the  Riksdag,  I  suppose.  And  now  you'll  see  that  he 
goes  there  instead  of  you. 

Curt.  Has  he  ever  thought  of  it  ? 

Alice.  No,  but  he  is  thinking  of  it  now.  I  read  it  on  his 
face  while  he  was  looking  at  the  envelope. 

Curt.  That's  why  he  has  to  go  to  the  city  ? 

Alice.  No,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  when  he  read  the 
death  notice. 

Curt.  What  has  he  to  gain  by  the  death  of  the  Health 
Commissioner  ? 

Alice.  Hard  to  tell !  Perhaps  the  man  was  an  enemy  who 
had  stood  in  the  way  of  his  plans. 

Curt.  If  he  be  as  terrible  as  you  say,  then  there  is  reason 
to  fear  him. 

Alice.  Didn't  you  hear  how  he  wanted  to  steal  you,  to  tie 
your  hands  by  means  of  pretended  obligations  that  do  not  ex- 
ist ?  For  instance,  he  has  done  nothing  to  get  you  this  posi- 
tion, but  has,  on  the  contrary,  tried  to  keep  you  out  of  it.  He 
is  a  man-thief,  an  insect,  one  of  those  wood-borers  that  eat  up 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        233 

your  insides  so  that  one  day  you  find  yourself  as  hollow  as  a 
dying  pine  tree.  lie  hates  yoii,  although  he  is  bound  to  you 
by  the  memory  of  your  youthful  friendship 

Curt.  How  keen-witted  we  are  made  by  our  hatreds! 

Alice.  And  stupid  by  our  loves — blind  and  stupid! 

Curt,  Oh,  no,  don't  say  that! 

Alice.  Do  you  know  what  is  meant  by  a  vampire  ?  They 
say  it  is  the  soul  of  a  dead  person  seeking  a  body  in  which  it 
may  live  as  a  parasite.  Edgar  is  dead — ever  since  he  fell 
down  on  the  floor  that  time.  You  see,  he  has  no  interests  of 
his  own,  no  personality,  no  initiative.  But  if  he  can  only  get 
hold  of  some  other  person  he  hangs  on  to  him,  sends  down 
roots  into  him,  and  begins  to  flourish  and  blossom.  Now  he 
has  fastened  himself  on  you. 

Curt.  If  he  comes  too  close  I'll  shake  him  oflF. 

Alice.  Try  to  shake  off  a  burr!  Listen:  do  you  know 
why  he  does  not  want  Judith  and  Allan  to  play  ? 

Curt.  I  suppose  he  is  concerned  about  their  feelings. 

Alice.  Not  at  all.  He  wants  to  marry  Judith  to — the 
Colonel ! 

Curt.  [Shocked]  That  old  widower! 

Alice.  Yes. 

Curt.  Horrible!    And  Judith? 

Alice.  If  she  could  get  the  General,  who  is  eighty,  she 
would  take  him  in  order  to  bully  the  Colonel,  who  is  sixty. 
To  bully,  you  know,  that's  the  aim  of  her  life.  To  trample 
down  and  bully — there  you  have  the  motto  of  that  family. 

Curt.  Can  this  be  Judith  ?  That  maiden  fair  and  proud 
and  splendid  ? 

Alice.  Oh,  I  know  all  about  that!  May  I  sit  here  and 
write  a  letter  ? 

Curt.  [Puts  the  writing-table  in  order]  With  pleasure. 

Alice.  [Takes  off  her  gloves  and  sits  down  at  the  writing- 


234        THEDANCEOFDEATH 

table]  Now  we'll  try  our  hand  at  the  art  of  war.  I  failed  once 
when  I  tried  to  slay  my  dragon.  But  now  I  have  mastered 
the  trade. 

Curt.  Do  you  know  that  it  is  necessary  to  load  before  you 
fire  ? 

Alice.  Yes,  and  with  ball  cartridges  at  that! 
Curt  withdraws  to  the  right. 
Alice  'ponders  and  writes. 

Allan  comes  rxishing  in  without  noticing  Alice  and 
throios  himself  face  downward  on  the  sofa.     He  is 
weeping  convulsively  into  a  lace  handkerchief. 
Alice.  \\Vatches  him  for  a  while.     Then  she  rises  and  goes 
over  to  the  sofa.     Speaks  in  a  tender  voice]  Allan ! 

Allan  sits  2ip  disconcertedly  and  hides  the  handkerchief 
behind  his  back. 
Alice.  [Tenderly,   womanly,  and  with  true  emotion]  You 
should  not  be  afraid  of  me,  Allan —     I  am  not  dangerous  to 
you —     What  is  wrong  ?     Are  you  sick  ? 
Allan.  Yes. 
Alice.  In  what  way  ? 
Allan.  I  don't  know. 
Alice.  Have  you  a  headache  ? 
Allan.  No. 

Alice.  And  your  chest .''     Pain  ? 
Allan.  Yes. 
Alice.  Pain — pain — as  if  your  heart  wanted  to  melt  away. 

And  it  pulls,  pulls 

Allan.  How  do  you  know  ? 

Alice.  And  then  you  wish  to  die — that  you  were  already 
dead — and  everything  seems  so  hard.  And  you  can  only 
think  of  one  thing — always  the  same — but  if  two  are  thinking 
of  the  same  thing,  then  sorrow  falls  heavily  on  one  of  them. 
[Allan  forgets  himself  and  begins  to  pick  at  the  handkerchief] 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        235 

That's  the  sickness  which  no  one  can  cure.  You  cannot 
eat  and  you  cannot  drink;  you  want  only  to  weep,  and  you 
weep  so  bitterly — especially  out  in  the  woods  where  nobody 
can  see  you,  for  at  that  kind  of  sorrow  all  men  laugh — men 
who  are  so  cruel !  Dear  me !  What  do  you  want  of  her  ? 
Nothing!  You  don't  want  to  kiss  her  mouth,  for  you  feel 
that  you  would  die  if  you  did.  When  your  thoughts  run  to 
her,  you  feel  as  if  death  were  approaching.  And  it  is  death, 
child — that  sort  of  death — which  brings  life.  But  you  don't 
understand  it  yet!  I  smell  violets — it  is  herself.  [Steps 
closer  to  Allan  and  takes  the  handkerchief  gently  away  from 
him]  It  is  she,  it  is  she  everywhere,  none  but  she!  Oh,  oh, 
oh!  [Allan  cannot  help  burying  his  face  in  Alice's  hosovi\ 
Poor  boy!  Poor  boy!  Oh,  how  it  hurts,  how  it  hurts! 
[Wipes  off  his  tears  with  the  handkerchief^  There,  there!  Cry 
— cry  to  your  heart's  content.  There  now!  Then  the  heart 
grows  lighter —  But  now,  Allan,  rise  up  and  be  a  man,  or 
she  will  not  look  at  you — she,  the  cruel  one,  who  is  not  cruel.  . 
Has  she  tormented  you  ?  With  the  Lieutenant  ?  You  must 
make  friends  with  the  Lieutenant,  so  that  you  two  can  talk 
of  her.     That  gives  a  little  ease  also. 

Allan.  I  don't  want  to  see  the  Lieutenant! 

Alice.  Now  look  here,  little  boy,  it  won't  be  long  before  the 
Lieutenant  seeks  you  out  in  order  to  get  a  chance  to  talk  of 
her.  For —  [Allan  looks  up  tvith  a  ray  of  hope  on  his  face] 
Well,  shall  I  be  nice  and  tell  you  ?  [Allan  droops  his  head]  He 
is  just  as  unhappy  as  you  are. 

Allan.  [Happy]  No? 

Alice.  Yes,  indeed,  and  he  needs  somebody  to  whom  he 
may  unburden  his  heart  when  Judith  has  wounded  him. 
You  seem  to  rejoice  in  advance  ? 

Allan.  Does  she  not  want  the  Lieutenant  ? 

Alice.  She  does  not  want  you  either,  dear  boy,  for  she 


236        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

wants  the  Colonel.  [Allan  is  saddened  again]  Is  it  raining 
again  ?  Well,  the  handkerchief  you  cannot  have,  for  Judith 
is  careful  about  her  belongings  and  wants  her  dozen  com- 
plete. [Allan  looks  dashed]  Yes,  my  boy,  such  is  Judith. 
Sit  over  there  now,  while  I  write  another  letter,  and  then  you 
mav  do  an  errand  for  me. 

[Sits  doicn  at  the  writing-table  and  begins  to  write  again. 

Lieutenant.  [Enters  from  the  background,  with  a  melancholy 

face,  but  icithout  being  ridicidous.     Without  noticing  Alice 

he  makes  straight  for  Allan]  I  say,  Cadet —  [Allan   rises 

and  stands  at  attention]  Please  be  seated. 

Alice  watches  them. 

The  Lieutenant  goes  up  to  Allan  and  sits  down  he- 
side  him.     Sighs,  takes  out  a  lace  handkerchief  just 
like  the  other  one,  and  wipes  his  forehead  with  it. 
Allan  stares  greedily  at  the  handkerchief 
The  Lieutenant  looks  sadly  at  Allan. 
Alice  coughs. 

The  Lieutenant  jumps  vp  and  stands  at  attention. 
Alice.  Please  be  seated. 

Lieutenant.  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam 

Alice.  Never  mind!     Please  sit  down  and  keep  the  Cadet 
company — he   is  feeling  a  little  lonely  here  on   the   island. 

[Writes. 
Lieutenant.  [Conversing  with  Allan  in  low  tone  and  un- 
easily]  It  is  awfully  hot. 
Allan.  Rather. 

Lieutenant.  Have  you  finished  the  sixth  book  yet  ? 
Allan.  I  have  just  got  to  the  last  proposition. 
Lieutenant.  That's  a  tough  one.  [Silence]  Have  you — 
[seeking  for  ivords]  played  tennis  to-day  ? 
Allan.  No-o — the  sun  was  too  hot. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        287 

Lieutenant.  [In  despair,  but  without  any  comical  effect] 
Yes,  it's  awfully  hot  to-day! 

Allan.  [In  a  whisper]  Yes,  it  is  very  hot.  [Silence. 

Lieutenant.  Have  you — been  out  sailing  to-day  ? 

Allan.  No-o,  I  couldn't  get  anybody  to  tend  the  jib. 

Lieutenant.  Could  you — trust  me  sufficiently  to  let  me 
tend  the  jib  ? 

Allan.  [Respectfully  as  before]  That  would  be  too  great  an 
honor  for  me.  Lieutenant. 

Lieltenant.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all!  Do  you  think — the 
wind  might  be  good  enough  to-day — about  dinner-time,  say, 
for  that's  the  only  time  I  am  free  ? 

Allan.  [Slyly]  It  always  calms  down  about  dinner-time, 
and — that's  the  time  Miss  Judith  has  her  lesson. 

Lieutenant.  [Sadly]  Oh,  yes,  yes!  Hm!  Do  you  think 

Alice,  Would  one  of  you  young  gentlemen  care  to  deliver 
a  letter  for  me  ?  [Allan  arid  the  Lieutenant  exchange  glances 
of  mutual  distrust]  — to  Miss  Judith?  [Allan  and  the  Lieu- 
tenant jump  tip  and  hasten  over  to  Alice,  but  not  without  a 
certain  dignity  meant  to  disguise  their  emotion]  Both  of  you  ? 
Well,  the  more  safely  my  errand  will  be  attended  to.  [Hands 
the  letter  to  the  Lieutenant]  If  you  please.  Lieutenant,  I 
should  like  to  have  that  handkerchief.  My  daughter  is  very 
careful  about  her  things — there  is  a  touch  of  pettiness  in 
her  nature —  Give  me  that  handkerchief!  I  don't  wish  to 
laugh  at  you,  but  you  must  not  make  yourself  ridiculous — • 
needlessly.  And  the  Colonel  does  not  like  to  play  the  part  of 
an  Othello.  [Takes  the  handkerchief]  Away  with  you  now, 
young  men,  and  try  to  hide  your  feelings  as  much  as  you  can. 
The  Lieutenant  bows  and  goes  out,  followed  closely  by 
Allan. 

Alice.  [Calls  out]  Allan ! 

Allan.  [Stops  unwillingly  in  the  doorivay]  Yes,  Aunt. 


238        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  Stay  here,  unless  you  want  to  inflict  more  suffering 
.  on  yourself  than  you  can  bear. 

Allan.  But  he  is  going! 

Alice,  Let  him  burn  himself.     But  take  care  of  yourself. 

Allan.  I  don't  want  to  take  care  of  myself. 

Alice.  And  then  you  cry  afterward.  And  so  I  get  the 
trouble  of  consoling  you. 

Allan.  I  want  to  go! 

Alice.  Go  then !  But  come  back  here,  young  madcap,  and 
I'll  have  the  right  to  laugh  at  you. 

[Allan  runs  after  the  Lieutenant. 
[Alice  writes  again. 

Curt.  [Enters]  Alice,  I  have  received  an  anonymous  letter 
that  is  bothering  me. 

Alice.  Have  you  noticed  that  Edgar  has  become  another 
person  since  he  put  off  the  uniform  ?  I  could  never  have  be- 
lieved that  a  coat  might  make  such  a  difference. 

Curt.  You  didn't  answer  my  question. 

Alice.  It  was  no  question.  It  was  a  piece  of  information. 
What  do  you  fear  ? 

Curt.  Everything! 

Alice.  He  went  to  the  city.  And  his  trips  to  the  city  are 
always  followed  by  something  dreadful. 

Curt.  But  I  can  do  nothing  because  I  don't  know  from 
which  quarter  the  attack  will  begin. 

Alice.  [Folding  the  letter]  We'll  see  whether  I  have  guessed 
it. 

Curt.  Will  you  help  me  then  ? 

Alice.  Yes — but  no  further  than  my  own  interests  permit. 
My  own — that  is  my  children's. 

Curt.  I  understand  that!  Do  you  hear  how  silent  every- 
thing is — here  on  land,  out  on  the  sea,  everywhere  ? 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        239 

Alice.  But  behind  the  silence  I  hear  voices— mutterings, 


cries ! 


Curt.  Hush!  I  hear  something,  too — no,  it  was  only  the 
gulls. 

Alice.  But  I  hear  something  else!  And  now  I  am  going 
to  the  post-office — with  this  letter! 

Curtain. 


Same  stage  setting.  Allan  is  sitting  at  the  meriting -table  study- 
ing. Judith  is  standing  in  the  doorway.  She  wears  a 
tennis  hat  and  carries  the  handle-bars  of  a  bicycle  in  one 
hand. 

Judith,  Can  I  borrow  your  wrench  ? 

Allan.  \}{^ithout  looking  up\  No,  you  cannot. 

Judith.  You  are  discourteous  now,  because  you  think  I 
am  running  after  you. 

Allan,  {^'ithout  crossness]  I  am  nothing  at  all,  but  I  ask 
merely  to  be  left  alone. 

Judith.  [Comes nearer]  Allan! 

Allan.  Yes,  what  is  it  ? 

Judith.  You  mustn't  be  angry  with  me! 

Allan.  I  am  not. 

Judith.  Will  you  give  me  your  hand  on  that  ? 

Allan.  [Kindly]  I  don't  want  to  shake  hands  with  you, 
but  I  am  not  angry —     What  do  you  want  with  me  anyhow  ? 

Judith.  Oh,  but  you're  stupid! 

Allan.  Well,  let  it  go  at  that. 

Judith.  You  think  me  cruel,  and  nothing  else. 

Allan.  No,  for  I  know  that  you  are  kind  too — you  can  be 
kind! 

Judith.  W^ell — how  can  I  help — that  you  and  the  Lieu- 
tenant run  around  and  weep  in  the  woods  ?  Tell  me,  why 
do  you  weep  ?  [Allan  is  embarrassed]  Tell  me  now —  I  never 
weep.  And  why  have  you  become  such  good  friends  ?  Of 
what  do  you  talk  while  you  are  walking  about  arm  in  arm  ? 
[Allan  cannot  answer]  Allan,  you'll  soon  see  what  kind  I  am 
and  whether  I  can  strike  a  blow  for  one  I  like.     And  I  want 

240 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        241 

to  give  you  a  piece  of  advice — although  I  have  no  use  for  tale- 
bearing.    Be  prepared! 

Allan.  For  what  ? 

Judith.  Trouble. 

Allan.  From  what  quarter  ? 

Judith.  From  the  quarter  where  you  least  expect  it. 

Allan.  Well,  I  am  rather  used  to  disappointment,  and  life 
has  not  brought  me  much  that  was  pleasant  What's  in  store 
now.? 

Judith.  [Pensively]  You  poor  boy — give  me  your  hand! 
[Allan  gives  her  his  liand]  Look  at  me!  Don't  you  dare  to 
look  at  me  ? 

[Allan  rushes  out  to  the  left  in  order  to  hide  his  emotion. 

Lieutenant.  [In  from  the  background]  I  beg  your  pardon! 
I  thought  that 

Judith.  Tell  me.  Lieutenant,  will  you  be  my  friend  and 
ally? 

Lieutenant.  If  you'll  do  me  the  honour • 

Judith.  Yes — a  word  only — don't  desert  Allan  when  dis- 
aster overtakes  him. 

Lieutenant.  What  disaster  ? 

Judith.  You'll. soon  see — this  very  day  perhaps.  Do  you 
like  Allan  ? 

Lieutenant.  The  young  man  is  my  best  pupil,  and  I  value 
him  personally  also  on  account  of  his  strength  of  character — - 
Yes,  life  has  moments  when  strength  is  required  [ivith  em- 
phasis] to  bear  up,  to  endure,  to  suffer,  in  a  word ! 

Judith.  That  was  more  than  one  word,  I  should  say. 
However,  you  like  Allan  ? 

Lieutenant.  Yes. 

Judith.  Look  him  up  then,  and  keep  him  company. 

Lieutenant.  It  was  for  that  purpose  I  came  here — for 
that  and  no  other.     I  had  ik)  other  object  in  my  visit. 


242        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Judith.  I  had  not  supposed  anything  of  that  kind — of  the 
•  kind  you  mean !     Allan  went  that  way. 

\Pointing  to  the  left. 

Lieutenant.  {Goes  reluctantly  to  the  left]  Yes — I'll  do  what 
you  ask. 

Judith.  Do,  please. 

Alice.  [In  from  the  background  What  are  you  doing  here  ? 

Judith.  I  wanted  to  borrow  a  wrench. 

Alice.  Will  you  listen  to  me  a  moment  ? 

Judith.  Of  course,  I  will. 

[Alice  sits  down  on  the  sofa. 

Judith.  [Remains  standing]  But  tell  me  quickly  what  you 
want  to  say.     I  don't  like  long  lectures. 

Alice.  Lectures  ?    Well,  then — put  up  your  hair  and  put 
on  a  long  dress. 

Judith.  Why? 

Alice.  Because  you  are  no  longer  a  child.     And  you  are 
young  enough  to  need  no  coquetry  about  your  age. 

Judith.  What  does  that  mean  ? 

Alice.  That  you  have  reached  marriageable  age.     And 
your  way  of  dressing  is  causing  scandal. 

Judith.  Then  I  shall  do  what  you  say. 

Alice.  You  have  understood  then  ? 

Judith.  Oh,  yes. 

Alice.  And  we  are  agreed  ? 

Judith.  Perfectly. 

A.LICE.  On  all  points  ? 

Judith.  Even  the  tenderest! 

Alice.  Will  you  at  the  same  time  cease  playing — with 
AUan? 

Judith.  It  is  going  to  be  serious  then  ? 

Alice.  Yes. 


THE   DANCE   OF  DEATH        243 

Judith.  Then  we  may  just  as  well  begin  at  once. 

She  has  already  laid  aside  the  handle-bars.  Now  she 
lets  down  the  bicycle  skirt  and  twists  her  braid  into  a 
knot  which  she  fastens  on  top  of  her  head  with  a  hair- 
pin taken  out  of  her  mother's  hair. 

Alice.  It  is  not  proper  to  make  your  toilet  in  a  strange 
place. 

Judith.  Am  I  all  right  this  way  ?  Then  I  am  ready.  Come 
now  who  dares ! 

Alice.  Now  at  last  you  look  decent.  And  leave  Allan  in 
peace  after  this. 

Judith.  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean  ? 

Alice.  Can't  you  see  that  he  is  suffering  ? 

Judith.  Yes,  I  think  I  have  noticed  it,  but  I  don't  know 
why.     I  don't  suffer! 

Alice.  That  is  your  strength.  But  the  day  will  come — oh, 
yes,  you  shall  know  what  it  means.  Go  home  now,  and  don't 
forget — that  you  are  wearing  a  long  skirt. 

Judith.  Must  you  walk  differently  then  ? 

Alice.  Just  try. 

Judith.  [Tries  to  walk  like  a  lady]  Oh,  my  feet  are  tied; 
I  am  caught,  I  cannot  run  any  longer! 

Alice.  Yes,  child,  now  the  walking  begins,  along  the  slow 
road  toward  the  unknown,  which  you  know  already,  but  must 
pretend  to  ignore.  Shorter  steps,  and  much  slower — much 
slower!  The  low  shoes  of  childhood  must  go,  Judith,  and 
you  have  to  wear  boots.  You  don't  remember  when  you 
laid  aside  baby  socks  and  put  on  shoes,  but  I  do! 

Judith,  I  can  never  stand  this! 

Alice.  And  yet  you  must — must! 

Judith.  [Goes  over  to  her  mother  and  kisses  her  lightly  on 
the  cheek;  then  tvalks  out  with  the  dignified  bearing  of  a  lady, 
hut  forgetting  the  handle-bars]  Good-bye  then ! 


244        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Curt.  [Enters from  the  right]  So  you're  already  here  ? 

Alice.  Yes. 

Curt.  Has  he  come  back  ? 

Alice.  Yes. 

Curt.  How  did  he  appear  ? 

Alice.  In  full  dress — so  he  has  called  on  the  Colonel.  And 
he  wore  two  orders. 

Curt.  Two  ?  I  knew  he  was  to  receive  the  Order  of  the 
Sword  on  h's  retirement.     But  what  can  the  other  one  be  ? 

Alice.  I  am  not  very  familiar  with  those  things,  but  there 
was  a  white  cross  within  a  red  one. 

Curt.  It  is  a  Portuguese  order  then.  Let  me  see — tell  me, 
didn't  his  articles  in  that  periodical  deal  with  quarantine  sta- 
tions in  Portuguese  harbours  ? 

Alice.  Yes,  as  far  as  I  can  recall. 

Curt.  And  he  has  never  been  in  Portugal .' 

Alice.  Never. 

Curt.  But  I  have  been  there. 

Alice.  You  shouldn't  be  so  communicative.  His  ears  and 
his  memory  are  so  good. 

Curt.  Don't  you  think  Judith  may  have  helped  him  to  this 
honour  ? 

Alice.  Well,  I  declare!  There  are  limits —  [''i^ing]  and 
you  have  passed  them. 

Curt.  Are  we  to  quarrel  now .'' 

Alice.  That  depends  on  you.  Don't  meddle  with  my  in- 
terests. 

Curt.  If  they  cross  my  own,  I  have  to  meddle  with  them, 
although  with  a  careful  hand.     Here  he  comes! 

Alice.  And  now  it  is  going  to  happen. 

Curt.  What  is — agoing  to  happen  ? 

Alice.  We  shall  see! 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        24.5 

Curt.  Let  it  come  to  open  attack  then,  for  this  state  of 
siege  is  getting  on  my  nerves.  I  have  not  a  friend  left  on  tlie 
island. 

Alice.  Wait  a  minute!  You  sit  on  this  side — he  must  have 
tlie  easy-chair,  of  course — and  then  I  can  prompt  you. 

Captain.  [Enters  from  the  background,  in  full  dress  uniform, 
tvearing  the  Order  of  the  Sword  and  the  Portuguese  Order  of 
Christ]  Good  day !     Here's  the  meeting  place. 

Alice.  You  are  tired — sit  down.  [The  Captain,  cofitrarij  to 
expectation,  takes  a  seat  on  the  sofa  to  the  left]  INIake  yourself 
comfortable. 

Captain.  This  is  all  right.     You're  too  kind. 

Alice.  [To  Cttrt]  Be  careful — he's  suspicious  of  us. 

Captain.  [Crossly]  What  was  that  you  said  ? 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  He  must  have  been  drinking. 

Captain.  [Rudely]  No-o,  he  has  not.  [Silence]  Well — how 
have  you  been  amusing  yourselves  ? 

Alice.  And  you  ? 

Captain.  Are  you  looking  at  my  orders  ? 

Alice.  No-o! 

Captain.  I  guess  not,  because  you  are  jealous —  Other- 
wise it  is  customary  to  offer  congratulations  to  the  recipient 
of  honours. 

Alice.  We  congratulate  you. 

Captain.  We  get  things  like  these  instead  of  laurel  wreaths, 
such  as  they  give  to  actresses. 

Alice.  That's  for  the  wreaths  at  home  on  the  walls  of  the 
tower 

Captain.  Which  your  brother  gave  you 

Alice.  Oh,  how  you  talk! 

Captain.  Before  which  I  have  had  to  bow  down  these 
twenty-five  years — and  which  it  has  taken  me  twenty-five 
years  to  expose. 


246        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  You  have  seen  my  brother  ? 

Captain.  Rather!  [Alice  is  crushed.  Silence]  And  you. 
Curt — you  don't  say  anything,  do  you  ? 

Curt.  I  am  waiting. 

Captain.  Well,  I  suppose  you  know  the  big  news  ? 

Curt.  No. 

Captain.  It  is  not  exactly  agreeable  for  me  to  be  the  one 
who 

Curt.  Oh,  speak  up! 

Captain.  The  soda  factory  has  gone  to  the  wall 

Curt.  That's  decidedly  unpleasant!  Where  does  that  leave 
you? 

Captain.  I  am  all  right,  as  I  sold  out  in  time. 

Curt.  That  was  sensible. 

Captain.  But  how  about  you  ? 

Curt.  Done  for! 

Captain.  It's  your  own  fault.  You  should  have  sold  out 
in  time,  or  taken  new  stock. 

Curt.  So  that  I  could  lose  that  too. 

Captain.  No,  for  then  the  company  would  have  been  all 
right. 

Curt.  Not  the  company,  but  the  directors,  for  in  my  mind 
that  new  subscription  was  simply  a  collection  for  the  benefit 
of  the  board. 

Captain.  And  now  I  ask  whether  such  a  view  of  the  matter 
will  save  your  money  ? 

Curt.  No,  I  shall  have  to  give  up  everything. 

Captain.  Everything? 

Curt.  Even  my  home,  the  furniture 

Captain.  But  that's  dreadful ! 

Curt.  I  have  experienced  worse  things.  [Silence. 

Captain.  That's  what  happens  when  amateurs  want  to 
speculate. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        247 

Curt.  You  surprise  me,  for  you  know  very  well  that  if 
I  had  not  subscribed,  I  should  have  been  boycotted.  The 
supplementary  livelihood  of  the  coast  population,  toilers  of 
the  sea,  inexhaustible  capital,  inexhaustible  as  the  sea  itself — 
philanthropy  and  national  prosperity —  Thus  you  wrote  and 
printed —     And  now  you  speak  of  it  as  speculation ! 

Captain.  [Unmoved]  What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ? 

Curt.  Have  an  auction,  I  suppose. 

Captain.  You  had  better. 

Curt.  What  do  you  mean .' 

Captain.  What  I  said!  For  there  [slowly]  are  going  to  be 
some  changes 

Curt.  On  the  island  ? 

Captain.  Yes — as,  for  instance, — your  quarters  are  going 
to  be  exchanged  for  somewhat  simpler  ones. 

Curt.  Well,  well. 

Captain.  Yes,  the  plan  is  to  place  the  quarantine  station 
on  the  outside  shore,  near  the  water. 

Curt.  My  original  idea ! 

Captain.  [Dryly]  I  don't  know  about  that — for  I  am  not 
familiar  with  your  ideas  on  the  subject.  However — it  seems 
then  quite  natural  that  you  dispose  of  the  furniture,  and  it 
will  attract  much  less  notice — the  scandal! 

Curt.  What? 

Captain.  The  scandal!  [Egging  himself  on]  For  it  is  a 
scandal  to  come  to  a  new  place  and  immediately  get  into 
financial  troubles  which  must  result  in  a  lot  of  annoyance  to 
the  relatives — particularly  to  the  relatives. 

Curt.  Oh,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  bear  the  worst  of  it. 

Captain.  Fll  tell  you  one  thing,  my  dear  Curt:  if  I  had 
not  stood  by  you  in  this  matter,  you  would  have  lost  your 
position. 

Curt.  That  too? 


248        THE   DANCE    OF    DEATH 

Captain.  It  comes  rather  hard  for  you  to  keep  things  in 
order — complaints  have  been  made  against  your  work. 

Curt.  Warranted  complaints  ? 

Captain.  Yah!  For  you  are — in  spite  of  your  other  re- 
spectable qualities— a  careless  fellow—  Don't  interrupt  me!— 
You  are  a  very  careless  fellow! 

Curt.  How  strange! 

Captain.  However — the  suggested  change  is  going  to  take 
place  very  soon.  And  I  should  advise  you  to  hold  the  auction 
at  once  or  sell  privately. 

Curt.  Privately  ?     And  where  could  I  find  a  buyer  in  this 

place  ? 

Captain.  Well,  I  hope  you  don't  expect  me  to  settle  down 
in  the  midst  of  your  things  ?  That  would  make  a  fine  story— 
[staccato]  hm ! — especially  when  I — think  of  what  happened — 
once  upon  a  time 

Curt.  What  was  that?  Are  you  referring  to  what  did  not 
happen  ? 

Captain.  [Turning  about]  You  are  so  silent,  Alice  ?  What 
is  the  matter,  old  girl  ?     Not  blue,  I  hope  ? 

Alice.  I  sit  here  and  think 

Captain.  Goodness!  Are  you  thinking?  But  you  have 
to  think  quickly,  keenly,  and  correctly,  if  it  is  to  be  of  any 
help!  So  do  your  thinking  now — one,  two,  three!  Ha-ha! 
You  can't!     Well,  then,  I  must  try—    Where  is  Judith? 

Alice.  Somewhere. 

Captain.  Where  is  Allan?  [Alice  remains  silent]  Where 
is  the  Lieutenant?  [Alice  as  before]  I  say.  Curt— what  are 
you  going  to  do  with  Allan  now  ? 

Curt.  Do  with  him  ? 

Captain.  Yes,  you  cannot  afford  to  keep  him  in  the  ar- 
tillery now. 

Curt.  Perhaps  not. 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        249 

Captain.  You  had  better  get  him  into  some  cheap  infantry 
regiment — up  in  Norrland,  or  somewhere. 

Curt.  In  Norrland  ? 

Captain.  Yes,  or  suppose  you  turned  him  into  something 
practical  at  once  ?  If  I  were  in  your  place,  I  should  get  him 
into  some  business  office — why  not?  [Curt  is  silent]  In 
these  enlightened  times — yah!  Alice  is  so  uncommonly  silent! 
Yes,  children,  this  is  the  seesawing  seesaw  board  of  life — 
one  moment  high  up,  looking  boldly  around,  and  the  next 
way  down,  and  then  upward  again,  and  so  on —  So  much  for 
that —  [To  Alice]  Did  you  say  anything  ?  [Alice  shakes  her 
head]  We  may  expect  company  here  in  a  few  days. 

Alice.  Were  you  speaking  to  me  ? 

Captain.  We  may  expect  company  in  a  few  days — notable 
company ! 

Alice.  Who? 

Captain.  Behold — you're  interested!  Now  you  can  sit 
there  and  guess  who  is  coming,  and  between  guesses  you  may 
read  this  letter  over  again.  [Hands  her  an  opened  letter. 

Alice.  My  letter  ?     Opened  ?     Back  from  the  mail  ? 

Captain.  [Risiiig]  Yes,  as  the  head  of  the  family  and  your 
guardian,  I  look  after  the  sacred  interests  of  the  family,  and 
with  iron  hand  I  shall  cut  short  every  effort  to  break  the  family 
ties  by  means  of  criminal  correspondence.  Yah!  [Alice  is 
crushed]  I  am  not  dead,  you  know,  but  don't  take  offence 
now  because  I  am  going  to  raise  us  all  out  of  undeserved 
humility — undeserved  on  my  own  part,  at  least! 

Alice.  Judith!  Judith! 

Captain.  And  Holofernes ?    I,  perhaps?    Pooh! 

[Goes  out  through  the  background. 

Curt.  Who  is  that  man  ? 

Alice.  How  can  I  tell  ? 

Curt.  We  are  beaten. 


250        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  Yes — beyond  a  doubt. 

Curt.  He  has  stripped  me  of  everything,  but  so  cleverly 
that  I  can  accuse  him  of  nothing. 

Alice.  "Why,  no — you  owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude  instead! 

Curt.  Does  he  know  what  he  is  doing  ? 

Alice.  No,  I  don't  think  so.  He  follows  his  nature  and 
his  instincts,  and  just  now  he  seems  to  be  in  favour  where  for- 
tune and  misfortune  are  being  meted  out. 

Curt.  I  suppose  it's  the  Colonel  who  is  to  come  here. 

Alice.  Probably.     And  that  is  why  Allan  must  go. 

Curt.  And  you  find  that  right  ? 

Alice.  Yes. 

Curt.  Then  our  ways  part. 

Alice.  [Ready  to  go]  A  little — but  we  shall  come  together 
again. 

Curt.  Probably. 

Alice.  And  do  you  know  where  ? 

Curt.  Here. 

Alice.  You  guess  it  ? 

Curt.  That's  easy!  He  takes  the  house  and  buys  the  fur- 
niture. 

Alice.  I  think  so,  too.     But  don't  desert  me! 

Curt.  Not  for  a  little  thing  like  that. 

Alice.  Good-bye.  [Goes. 

Curt.  Good-bye. 

Curtain. 


Same  stage  setting,  hut  flic  day  is  cloudy  and  it  is  raining  outside. 
Alice  and  Curt  enter  from  the  haclcground,  wearing 
rain  coats  and  carrying  umhrellas. 

Alice.  At  last  I  have  got  you  to  come  here!  But,  I  can- 
not be  so  cruel  as  to  wish  you  welcome  to  your  own  home 

Curt.  Oh,  why  not  ?  I  have  passed  through  three  forced 
sales — and  worse  than  that —     It  doesn't  matter  to  me. 

Alice.  Did  he  call  you  ? 

Curt.  It  was  a  formal  command,  but  on  what  basis  I 
don't  understand. 

Alice.  Why,  he  is  not  your  superior! 

Curt.  No,  but  he  has  made  himself  king  of  the  island. 
And  if  there  be  any  resistance,  he  has  only  to  mention  the 
Colonel's  name,  and  everybody  submits.  Tell  me,  is  it  to- 
day the  Colonel  is  coming? 

Alice.  He  is  expected — but  I  know  nothing  with  cer- 
tainty—    Sit  down,  please. 

Curt.  [Sitting  doivn]  Nothing  has  been  changed  here. 

Alice.  Don't  think  of  it!     Don't  renew  the  pain! 

Curt.  The  pain  ?  I  find  it  merely  a  little  strange.  Strange 
as  the  man  himself.  Do  you  know,  when  I  made  his  ac- 
quaintance as  a  boy,  I  fled  him.  But  he  was  after  me. 
Flattered,  offered  services,  and  surrounded  me  with  ties —  I 
repeated  my  attempt  at  escape,  but  in  vain —  And  now  I 
am  his  slave! 

Alice.  And  why  ?  He  owes  you  a  debt,  but  you  appear 
as  the  debtor. 

Curt.  Since  I  lost  all  I  had,  he  has  offered  me  help  in  get- 
ting Allan  through  his  examinations 

251 


252        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  For  which  you  will  have  to  pay  dearly!  You  are 
still  a  candidate  for  the  Riksdag  ? 

Curt.  Yes,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  there  is  nothing  in  my 
way.  [Silence. 

Alice.  Is  Allan  really  going  to  leave  to-day  ? 

Curt.  Yes,  if  I  cannot  prevent  it. 

Alice.  That  was  a  short-lived  happiness. 

CuKT.  Short-lived  as  everything  but  life  itself,  which  lasts 
all  too  long. 

Alice.  Too  long,  indeed! —  Won't  you  come  in  and  wait  in 
the  sitting-room  ?  Even  if  it  does  not  trouble  you,  it  troubles 
me — these  surroundings! 

Curt.  If  you  wish  it 

Alice.  I  feel  ashamed,  so  ashamed  that  I  could  wish  to  die 
— but  I  can  alter  nothing! 

Curt.  Let  us  go  then — as  you  wish  it. 

Alice.  And  somebody  is  coming  too. 

[They  go  ont  to  the  left. 
The  Captain  and  Allan  enter  from  the  background, 
both  in  uniform  and  wearing  cloaks. 

Captain.  Sit  down,  my  boy,  and  let  me  have  a  talk  with 
you.  [Sits  down  in  the  easy-chair. 

[Allan  sits  doum  on  the  chair  to  the  left. 

Captain.  It's  raining  to-day — otherwise  I  could  sit  here 
comfortably  and  look  at  the  sea.  [Silence]  Well? —  You 
don't  like  to  go,  do  you  ? 

Allan.  I  don't  like  to  leave  my  father. 

Captain.  Yes,  your  father — he  is  rather  an  unfortunate 
man.  [Silence\  And  parents  rarely  understand  the  true  wel- 
fare of  their  children.  That  is  to  say — there  are  exceptions, 
of  course.  Hm!  Tell  me,  Allan,  have  you  any  communica- 
tion with  your  mother  ? 

Allan.  Yes,  she  writes  now  and  then 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        253 

Captain.  Do  you  know  that  she  is  your  guardian  ? 

Allan.  Yes. 

Captain.  Now,  Allan,  do  you  know  that  your  mother  has 
authorised  me  to  act  in  her  place  ? 

Allan.  I  didn't  know  that! 

Captain,  Well,  you  know  it  now.  And,  therefore,  all  dis- 
cussions concerning  your  career  are  done  with —  And  you 
are  going  to  Norrland. 

Allan.  But  I  have  no  money. 

Captain.  I  have  arranged  for  what  you  need. 

Allan.  All  I  can  do  then  is  to  thank  you,  Uncle. 

Captain.  Yes,  you  are  grateful — which  everybody  is  not. 
Hm! —  [Raising  his  voice]  The  Colonel — do  you  know  the 
Colonel  ? 

Allan.  [Embarrassed]  No,  I  don't. 

Captain.  [With  emphasis]  The  Colonel — is  my  special 
friend — [a  little  more  hurriedly]  as  you  know,  perhaps.  Hm! 
The  Colonel  has  wished  to  show  his  interest  in  my  family, 
including  my  wife's  relatives.  Through  his  intercession,  the 
Colonel  has  been  able  to  provide  the  means  needed  for  the 
completion  of  your  course.  Now  you  understand  the  obliga- 
tion under  which  you  and  your  father  are  placed  toward  the 
Colonel.  Have  I  spoken  with  sufficient  plainness.?  [Allan 
bows]  Go  and  pack  your  things  now.  The  money  will  be 
handed  to  you  at  the  landing.  And  now  good-bye,  my  boy. 
[Holds  out  a  finger  to  Allan]  Good-bye  then. 

[Rises  and  goes  out  to  the  right. 

[Allan,  alone,  stands  still,  looking  sadly  around  the  room. 

Judith.  [Enters  from  the  background,  wearing  a  hooded  rain 

coat  and  carrying  an  umbrella;  otherxoise  exquisitely  dressed,  in 

long  skirt  and  with  her  hair  put  up]  Is  that  you,  Allan! 

Allan.  [Turning  around,  surveys  Judith  carefuUy]  Is  that 
you,  Judith? 


254        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Judith.  You  don't  know  me  any  longer  ?  Where  have  you 
been  all  this  time?  What  are  you  looking  at?  My  long 
dress — and  my  hair —    You  have  not  seen  me  like  this  before  ? 

Allan.  No-o 

Judith.  Do  I  look  like  a  married  woman  ? 

[Allan  turns  away  from  her. 

Judith.  [Earnestly]  What  are  you  doing  here  ? 

Allan.  I  am  saying  good-bye. 

Judith.  W^hat  ?     You  are  going — away  ? 

Allan.  I  am  transferred  to  Norrland. 

Judith.  [Dumfounded]  To  Norrland  ?  When  are  you 
going  ? 

Allan.  To-day. 

Judith.  Whose  doing  is  this  ? 

Allan.  Your  father's. 

Judith.  That's  what  I  thought!  [Walks  up  and  down  the 
floor,  stamping  her  feet]  I  wish  you  had  stayed  over  to-day. 

Allan.  In  order  to  meet  the  Colonel  ? 

Judith.  What  do  you  know  about  the  Colonel  ? —  Is  it 
certain  that  you  are  going  ? 

Allan.  There  is  no  other  choice.  And  now  I  want  it  my- 
self. [Silence. 

Judith.  Why  do  you  want  it  now  ? 

Allan.  I  want  to  get  away  from  here — out  into  the  world! 

Judith.  It's  too  close  here  ?  Yes,  Allan,  I  imderstand  you 
— it's  unbearable  here — here,  where  they  speculate — in  soda 
and  human  beings!  [Silence. 

Judith.  [With  genuine  emotion]  As  you  know,  Allan,  I 
possess  that  fortunate  nature  which  cannot  suffer — but — now 
I  am  learning! 

Allan.  You  ? 

Judith.  Yes — now  it's  beginning!  [She  presses  both  hands 
to  her  breast]  Oh,  how  it  hurts — oh! 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        255 

Allan.  What  is  it  ? 

Judith.  I  don't  know — I  choke— I  think  I'm  going  to  die! 

Allan.  Judith .'' 

Judith.  [Crying  out]  Oh!  Is  this  the  way  it  feels?  Is 
this  the  way — poor  boys ! 

Allan.  I  should  smile,  if  I  were  as  cruel  as  you  are. 

Judith.  I  am  not  cruel,  but  I  didn't  know  better —  You 
must  not  go! 

All.\n.  I  have  to! 

Judith.  Go  then — but  give  me  a  keepsake! 

Allan.  What  have  I  to  give  you  ? 

Judith.  [With  all  the  seriousness  of  deepest  suffering] 
You ! —  No,  I  can  never  live  through  this!  [Cries  out,  pressing 
her  breast  with  both  hands]  I  suffer,  I  suffer —  What  have  you 
done  to  me?  I  don't  want  to  live  any  longer!  Allan,  don't 
go — not  alone!  Let  us  go  together — we'll  take  the  small  boat, 
the  little  white  one — and  we'll  sail  far  out,  with  the  main  sheet 
made  fast — the  wind  is  high — and  we  sail  till  we  founder — 
out  there,  way  out,  where  there  is  no  eelgrass  and  no  jelly- 
fish—  What  do  you  say? —  But  we  should  have  washed 
the  sails  yesterday — they  should  be  white  as  snow — for  I  want 
to  see  white  in  that  moment — and  you  swim  with  your  arm 
about  me  until  you  grow  tired — and  then  we  sink —  [Turning 
around]  There  would  be  style  in  that,  a  good  deal  more  style 
than  in  going  about  here  lamenting  and  smuggling  letters  that 
will  be  opened  and  jeered  at  by  father —  Allan !  [She  takes 
hold  of  both  his  arms  and  shakes  him]  Do  you  hear  ? 

Allan.  [Who  has  been  watching  her  with  shining  eyes]  Ju- 
dith!    Judith!     Why  were  you  not  like  this  before? 

Judith.  I  didn't  know — how  could  I  tell  what  I  didn't 
know  ? 

Allan.  And  now  I  must  go  away  from  you!     But  I  sup- 


2oG        THE   DANCE   OF  DEATH 

pose  it  is  the  better,  the  only  thing!     I  cannot  compete  with 
a  man — hke 

Judith.  Don't  speak  of  the  Colonel! 

Allan.  Is  it  not  true  ? 

Judith.  It  is  true — and  it  is  not  true. 

Allan.  Can  it  become  wholly  untrue  ? 

Judith.  Yes,  so  it  shall — within  an  hour! 

Allan.  And  you  keep  your  word .''  I  can  wait,  I  can  suffer, 
I  can  work — Judith! 

Judith.  Don't  go  yet!     How  long  must  I  wait? 

Allan.  A  year. 

Judith.  [Exultantly]  One  ?  I  shall  wait  a  thousand  years, 
and  if  you  do  not  come  then,  I  shall  turn  the  dome  of  heaven 
upside  down  and  make  the  sun  rise  in  the  west —  Hush, 
somebody  is  coming!  Allan,  we  must  part — take  me  into 
your  arms !  [They  embrace  each  other]  But  you  must  not  kiss 
me.  [Turns  her  head  atcay]     There,  go  now!     Go  now! 

Allan  goes  toward  the  background  and  puts  on  his  cloak. 
Then  they  rush  into  each  other^s  arms  so  that  Judith 
disappears  beneath  the  cloak,  and  for  a  moment  they 
exchange  kisses.  Allan  nushes  out.  Judith  throws 
herself  face  downward  on  the  sofa  and  sobs. 

Allan.  [Comes  back  and  kneels  beside  the  sofa]  No,  I  can- 
not go !     I  cannot  go  away  from  you — not  now ! 

Judith.  [Rising]  If  you  could  only  see  how  beautiful  you 
are  now!     If  you  could  only  see  yourself! 

Allan.  Oh,  no,  a  man  cannot  be  beautiful.  But  you,  Ju- 
dith! You — that  you — oh,  I  saw  that,  when  you  were  kind, 
another  Judith  appeared — and  she's  mine! —  But  if  you 
don't  keep  faith  with  me  now,  then  I  shall  die! 

Judith.  I  think  I  am  dying  even  now —  Oh,  that  I 
might  die  now,  just  now,  when  I  am  so  happy 

Allan.  Somebody  is  coming! 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        257 

Judith.  Let  them  come!  I  fear  nothing  in  the  world  here- 
after. But  I  wish  you  could  take  me  along  under  your  cloak. 
[She  hides  herself  in  play  under  his  cloak]  And  then  I  should 
fly  with  you  to  Norrland.  What  are  we  to  do  in  Norrland  ? 
Become  a  Fusilier — one  of  those  that  wear  plumes  on  their 
hats  ?     There's  style  in  that,  and  it  will  be  becoming  to  you. 

[Plays  with  his  hair. 
Aulas  kisses  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  one  by  one — and 
then  he  kisses  her  shoe. 
Judith.  What  are  you  doing,  Mr.  Madcap  ?     Your  lips 
will  get  black.  [Rising  impetuously]  And  then  I  cannot  kiss 
you  when  you  go!     Come,  and  I'll  go  with  you! 
Allan.  No,  then  I  should  be  placed  under  arrest. 
Judith.  I'll  go  with  you  to  the  guard-room. 
Allan.  They  wouldn't  let  you!     We  must  part  now! 
Judith.  I  am  going  to  swim  after  the  steamer — and  then 
you  jump  in  and  save  me — and  it  gets  into  the  newspapers, 
and  we  become  engaged.     Shall  we  do  that  ? 
Allan.  You  can  still  jest  ? 

Judith.  There  will  always  be  time  for  tears —  Say  good- 
bye now! 

They  rush  into  each  other's  arms;  then  Allan  with- 
draws slowly  through  the  door  in  the  background, 
Judith  following  him;  the  door  remains  open  after 
them;  they  embrace  again  outside,  in  the  rain. 
Allan.  You'll  get  wet,  Judith. 
Judith.  What  do  I  care! 

They  tear  themselves  away  from  each  other.  Allan 
leaves.  Judith  remains  behind,  exposing  herself  to 
the  rain  and  to  the  wind,  which  strains  at  her  hair 
and  her  clothes  while  she  is  waving  her  handkerchief. 
Then  Judith  runs  back  into  the  room  and  throws 
herself  on  the  sofa,  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands. 


258        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  [Enters  and  goes  over  to  Judith]  What  is  this  ? — 
Get  up  and  let  me  look  at  you. 

[Judith  sits  up. 

Alice.  [Scrutinising  /jcr]  You  are  not  sick —  And  I  am 
not  going  to  console  you.  [Goes  out  to  the  right. 

The  Lieutenant  enters  from  the  background. 

Judith.  [Gets  up  and  puts  on  the  hooded  coat]  Come  along 
to  the  telegraph  office,  Lieutenant. 

Lieutenant.  If  I  can  be  of  any  service — but  I  don't  think 
it's  quite  proper 

Judith.  So  much  the  better!     I  want  you  to  compromise 

me — but  without  any  illusions  on  your  part —     Go  ahead, 

please!  [They  go  out  through  the  background. 

The  Captain  and  Alice  enter  from  the  right;  he  is  in 

undress  uniform. 

Captain.  [Sits  down  in  the  easy-chair]  Let  him  come  in. 
Alice  goes  over  to  the  door  mi  the  left  and  opens  it, 
tvhereupon  she  sits  down  on  the  sofa. 

Curt.  [Enters  from  the  left]  You  want  to  speak  to  me  ? 

Captain.  [Pleasantly,  but  somewhat  condescendingly]  Yes, 
I  have  quite  a  number  of  important  things  to  tell  you.  Sit 
down. 

Curt.  [Sits  down  on  the  chair  to  the  left]  I  am  all  ears. 

Captain.  Well,  then! —  [Bumptiously]  You  know  that  our 
quarantine  system  has  been  neglected  during  nearly  a  cen- 
tury— hm ! 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  That's  the  candidate  for  the  Riksdag 
who  speaks  now. 

Captain.  But  with  the  tremendous  development  witnessed 
by  our  own  day  in 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  The  communications,  of  course! 

Captain.  — all  kinds  of  ways  the  government  has  begun 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        259 

to  consider  improvements.  And  for  this  purpose  the  Board 
of  Health  has  appointed  inspectors — hm! 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  He's  giving  dictation. 

Captain.  You  may  as  well  learn  it  now  as  later — I  have 
been  appointed  an  inspector  of  quarantines.  [Silence. 

Curt.  I  congratulate — and  pay  my  respects  to  my  superior 
at  the  same  time. 

Captain.  On  account  of  ties  of  kinship  our  personal  rela- 
tions will  remain  unchanged.  However — to  speak  of  other 
things —  At  my  request  your  son  Allan  has  been  transferred 
to  an  infantry  regiment  in  Norrland. 

Curt.  But  I  don't  want  it. 

Captain.  Your  will  in  this  case  is  subordinate  to  the 
mother's  wishes — and  as  the  mother  has  authorised  me  to  de- 
cide, I  have  formed  this  decision. 

Curt.  I  admire  you ! 

Captain.  Is  that  the  only  feeling  you  experience  at  this 
moment  when  you  are  to  part  from  your  son  ?  Have  you  no 
other  purely  human  feelings  ? 

Curt.  You  mean  that  I  ought  to  be  suffering  ? 

Captain.  Yes. 

Curt.  It  would  please  you  if  I  suffered.  You  wish  me  to 
suffer. 

Captain.  You  suffer  ? —  Once  I  was  taken  sick — ^you  were 
present  and  I  can  still  remember  that  your  face  expressed 
nothing  but  undisguised  pleasure. 

Alice.  That  is  not  true!  Curt  sat  beside  your  bed  all 
night  and  calmed  you  down  when  your  qualms  of  conscience 
became  too  violent — but  when  you  recovered  you  ceased  to 
be  thankful  for  it 

Captain.  [Pretending  not  to  hear  Alice]  Consequently 
Allan  will  have  to  leave  us. 

Curt.  And  who  is  going  to  pay  for  it  ? 


260        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Capi'ain.  I  have  done  so  already — that  is  to  say,  we — a 
syndicate  of  people  interested  in  the  young  man's  future. 

Curt.  A  syndicate  ? 

Captain.  Yes — and  to  make  sure  that  everything  is  all 
right  you  can  look  over  these  subscription  lists. 

[Hands  him  some  papers. 

Curt.  Lists  ?  [Reading  the  papers]  These  are  begging  let- 
ters ? 

Captain.  Call  them  what  you  please. 

Curt.  Have  you  gone  begging  on  behalf  of  my  son  ? 

Captain.  Are  you  ungrateful  again  ?  An  ungrateful  man 
is  the  heaviest  burden  borne  by  the  earth. 

Curt.  Then  I  am  dead  socially!  And  my  candidacy  is 
done  for! 

Captain.  What  candidacy  ? 

Curt.  For  the  Riksdag,  of  course. 

Captain.  I  hope  you  never  had  any  such  notions — partic- 
ularly as  you  might  have  guessed  that  I,  as  an  older  resident, 
intended  to  offer  my  own  services,  which  you  seem  to  under- 
estimate. 

Curt.  Oh,  well,  then  that's  gone,  too! 

Captain.  It  doesn't  seem  to  trouble  you  very  much. 

Curt.  Now  you  have  taken  everything — do  you  want  more  ? 

Captain.  Have  you  anything  more  ?  And  have  you  any- 
thing to  reproach  me  with  ?  Consider  carefully  if  you  have 
anything  to  reproach  me  with. 

Curt.  Strictly  speaking,  no!  Everything  has  been  correct 
and  legal  as  it  should  be  between  honest  citizens  in  the  course 
of  daily  life 

Captain.  You  say  this  with  a  resignation  which  I  would 
call  cynical.  But  your  entire  nature  has  a  cynical  bent,  my 
dear  Curt,  and  there  are  moments  when  I  feel  tempted  to 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        261 

share  Alice's  opinion  of  you — that  you  are  a  hypocrite,  a  hypo- 
crite of  the  first  water. 

Curt.  [Calmly]  So  that's  Ahce's  opinion  ? 

Alice.  [To  Curt]  It  was — once.  But  not  now,  for  it  takes 
true  heroism  to  bear  what  you  have  borne — or  it  takes  some- 
thing else! 

Captain.  Now  I  think  the  discussion  may  be  regarded  as 
closed.  You,  Curt,  had  better  go  and  say  good-bye  to  Allan, 
who  is  leaving  with  the  next  boat. 

Curt.  [Rising]  So  soon  ?  Well,  I  have  gone  through  worse 
things  than  that. 

Captain.  You  say  that  so  often  that  I  am  beginning  to 
wonder  what  you  went  through  in  America  ? 

Curt.  What  I  went  through  ?  I  went  through  misfortunes. 
And  it  is  the  unmistakable  right  of  every  human  being  to 
suffer  misfortune. 

Captain.  [Sharply]  There  are  self-inflicted  misfortunes — 
were  yours  of  that  kind  ? 

Curt.  Is  not  this  a  question  of  conscience  ? 

Captain.  [Brusquely]  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  a  con- 
science ? 

Curt.  There  are  wolves  and  there  are  sheep,  and  no  human 
being  is  honoured  by  being  a  sheep.  But  I'd  rather  be  that 
than  a  wolf! 

Captain.  You  don't  recognise  the  old  truth,  that  every- 
body is  the  maker  of  his  own  fortune  ? 

Curt.  Is  that  a  truth? 

Captain.  And  you  don't  know  that  a  man's  own 
strength 

Curt.  Yes,  I  know  that  from  the  night  when  your  own 
strength  failed  you,  and  you  lay  flat  on  the  floor. 

Captain.  [Raising  his  voice]  A  deserving  man  like  myself 
— yes,  look  at  me —     For  fifty  years  I  have  fought — against  a 


262        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

world — but  at  last  I  have  won  the  game,  by  perseverance, 
loyalty,  energy,  and — integrity! 

Alice.  You  should  leave  that  to  be  said  by  others! 

Captain.  The  others  won't  say  it  because  they  are  jeal- 
ous. However — we  are  expecting  company — my  daughter 
Judith  will  to-day  meet  her  intended —     Where  is  Judith  ? 

Alice.  She  is  out. 

Captain.  In  the  rain  ?     Send  for  her. 

Curt.  Perhaps  I  may  go  now  ? 

Captain.  No,  you  had  better  stay.  Is  Judith  dressed — 
Properly  ? 

Alice.  Oh,  so-so —  Have  you  definite  word  from  the 
Colonel  that  he  is  coming  ? 

Captain.  [Rising]  Yes — that  is  to  say,  he  will  take  us  by 
surprise,  as  it  is  termed.  And  I  am  expecting  a  telegram  from 
him — any  moment.  [Goes  to  the  right]  I'll  be  back  at  once. 

Alice.  There  you  see  him  as  he  is!  Can  he  be  called 
human  ? 

Curt.  When  you  asked  that  question  once  before,  I  an- 
swered no.  Now  I  believe  him  to  be  the  commonest  kind  of 
human  being  of  the  sort  that  possess  the  earth.  Perhaps 
we.  too,  are  of  the  same  kind — making  use  of  other  people 
and  of  favourable  opportunities .'' 

Alice.  He  has  eaten  you  and  yours  alive — and  you  defend 
him  ? 

Curt.  I  have  suffered  worse  things.  And  this  man-eater 
has  left  my  soul  unharmed — that  he  couldn't  swallow! 

Alice.  What  "worse"  have  you  suffered? 

Curt.  And  you  ask  that  ? 

Alice.  Do  you  wish  to  be  rude  ? 

Curt.  No,  I  don't  wish  to — and  therefore — don't  ask 
again! 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        263 

Captain.  [Enters  from  the  right]  The  telep;ram  was  already 
there,  however —  Please  read  it,  Alice,  for  I  cannot  see — 
[Seats  himself  pompously  in  the  easy-chair]  Read  it!  You 
need  not  go,  Curt. 

Alice  glances  through  the  telegram  quickly  and  looks 
perplexed. 

Captain.     Well  ?    Don't  you  find  it  pleasing  ? 

[Alice  stares  in  silence  at  the  Captain. 

Captain.  [J ronicalhj]  Who  is  it  from  ? 

Alice.  From  the  Colonel. 

Captain.  [With  self-satisfaction]  So  I  thought — and  what 
does  the  Colonel  say  ? 

Alice.  This  is  what  he  says:  "On  account  of  Miss  Ju- 
dith's impertinent  communication  over  the  telephone,  I  con- 
sider the  relationship  ended — for  ever!" 

[Looks  intently  at  the  Captain. 

Captain.  Once  more,  if  you  please. 

Alice.  [Reads  rapidly]  "On  account  of  Miss  Judith's  im- 
pertinent communication  over  the  telephone,  I  consider  the 
relationship  ended — for  ever!" 

Captain.  [Turns  pale]  It  is  Judith! 

Alice.  And  there  is  Holofernes! 

Captain.  And  what  are  you  ? 

Alice.  Soon  you  will  see! 

Captain.  This  is  your  doing! 

Alice.  No! 

Captain.  [In  a  rage]  This  is  your  doing! 

Alice.  No!  [The  Captain  tries  to  rise  and  draw  his  sabre, 
bid  falls  back,  touched  by  an  apoplectic  stroke]  There  you  got 
what  was  coming  to  you! 

Captain.  \^^ith  senile  tears  in  his  voice]  Don't  be  angry  at 
me —    I  am  verv  sick 

Alice.  Are  you  ?     I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 


264        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Curt,  Let  us  put  him  to  bed. 

Alice.  No,  I  don't  want  to  touch  him.  [Rmgs 

Captain.  [As  before]  You  must  not  be  angry  at  me!  [To 
Curt]  Look  after  my  children! 

Curt.  This  is  subHme!  I  am  to  look  after  his  children, 
and  he  has  stolen  mine! 

Alice.  Always  the  same  self-deception ! 

Captain.  Look  after  my  children!  [Continues  to  viumbte 
unintelligibhj]  Blub-blub-blub-blub. 

Alice.  At  last  that  tongue  is  checked!  Can  brag  no  more, 
lie  no  more,  wound  no  more!  You,  Curt,  who  believe  in  God, 
give  Him  thanks  on  my  behalf.  Thank  Him  for  my  liberation 
from  the  tower,  from  the  wolf,  from  the  vampire! 

Curt.  Not  that  way,  Alice! 

Alice.  [With  her  face  close  to  the  Captain's]  Where  is  your 
own  strength  now  ?  Tell  me  ?  Where  is  your  energy  ?  [The 
Captain,  speechless,  spits  in  her  face]  Oh,  you  can  still  squirt 
venom,  you  viper — then  I'll  tear  the  tongue  out  of  your  throat! 
[Cuffs  him  on  the  ear]  The  head  is  off,  but  still  it  blushes ! — 
O,  Judith,  glorious  girl,  whom  I  have  carried  like  vengeance 
under  my  heart — ^you,  you  have  set  us  free,  all  of  us! —  If 
you  have  more  heads  than  one,  Hydra,  we'll  take  them !  [Pulls 
his  beard]  Think  only  that  justice  exists  on  the  earth!  Some- 
times I  dreamed  it,  but  I  could  never  believe  it.  Curt,  ask 
God  to  pardon  me  for  misjudging  Him.  Oh,  there  is  justice! 
So  I  will  become  a  sheep,  too!  Tell  Him  that.  Curt!  A 
little  success  makes  us  better,  but  adversity  alone  turns  us 
into  wolves. 

The  Lieutenant  enters  from  the  background. 

Alice.  The  Captain  has  had  a  stroke — will  you  please  help 
us  to  roll  out  the  chair  .'* 

Lieutenant.  Madam 

Alice.  What  is  it  ? 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        265 


Lieutenant.  Well,  Miss  Judith- 


Alice.  Help  us  with  this  first — then  you  can  speak  of  Miss 
Judith  afterward. 

[The  Lieutenant  rolls  out  the  chair  to  the  right. 

Alice.  Away  with  the  carcass!  Out  with  it,  and  let's  open 
the  doors!  The  place  must  be  aired !  [Opens  the  doors  in  the 
background;  the  sky  has  cleared]  Ugh! 

Curt.  Are  you  going  to  desert  him  ? 

Alice.  A  wrecked  ship  is  deserted,  and  the  crew  save  their 
lives — I'll  not  act  as  undertaker  to  a  rotting  beast!  Drainmen 
and  dissectors  may  dispose  of  him!  A  garden  bed  would  be 
too  good  for  that  barrowful  of  filth!  Now  I  am  going  to  wash 
and  bathe  myself  in  order  to  get  rid  of  all  this  impurity — if  I 
can  ever  cleanse  myself  completely! 

Judith  is  seen  outside,  by  the  balustrade,  waving  her 
handkerchief  toward  the  sea. 

Curt.  [Toward  the  background]  Who  is  there?  Judith! 
[Calls  out]  Judith! 

Judith.  [Cries  out  as  she  enters]  He  is  gone! 

Curt.  Who? 

Judith.  Allan  is  gone! 

Curt.  Without  saying  good-bye  ? 

Judith.  He  did  to  me,  and  he  sent  his  love  to  you,  Uncle. 

Alice.  Oh,  that  was  it! 

Judith.  [Throwing  herself  into  Curt's  arvis]  He  is  gone! 

Curt.  He  will  come  back,  little  girl. 

Alice.  Or  we  will  go  after  him ! 

Curt.  \}Vith  a  gesture  indicating  the  door  on  the  right]  And 
leave  him  ?     What  would  the  world 

Alice.  The  world — bah!  Judith,  come  into  my  arms! 
[Judith  goes  up  to  Alice,  who  kisses  her  on  the  forehead]  Do 
you  want  to  go  after  him  ? 

Judith.  How  can  you  ask  ? 


266        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  But  your  father  is  sick. 

Judith.  What  do  I  care! 

Alice.  This  is  Judith!    Oh,  I  love  you,  Judith! 

Judith.  And  besides,  papa  is  never  mean — and  he  doesn't 
like  cuddling.     There's  style  to  papa,  after  all. 

Alice.  Yes,  in  a  way ! 

Judith.  And  I  don't  think  he  is  longing  for  me  after  that 
telephone  message —  Well,  why  should  he  pester  me  with  an 
old  fellow?  No,  Allan,  Allan!  [Throws  herself  into  Curt's 
arms]  I  want  to  go  to  Allan ! 

Tears  herself  loose  again  and  runs  out  to  wave  her  hand- 
kerchief 
[CvRT  follotcs  her  and  waves  his  handkerchief  also. 

Alice.  Think  of  it,  that  flowers  can  grow  out  of  dirt! 
The  Lieutenant  in  from  the  right. 

Alice.  Well  ? 

Lieutenant.  Yes,  Miss  Judith 

Alice.  Is  the  feeling  of  those  letters  that  form  her  name 
so  sweet  on  your  lips  that  it  makes  you  forget  him  who  is 
dying  ? 

Lieutenant.  Yes,  but  she  said 

Alice.  She?  Say  rather  Judith  then!  But  first  of  all — 
how  goes  it  in  there  ? 

Lieutenant.  Oh,  in  there — it's  all  over! 

Alice.  All  over?  O,  God,  on  my  own  behalf  and  that 
of  all  mankind,  I  thank  Thee  for  having  freed  us  from  this 
evil!  Your  arm,  if  you  please — I  want  to  go  outside  and 
get  a  breath — breathe! 

[The  Lieutenant  offers  his  arm. 

Alice.  [Checks  herself]  Did  he  say  anything  before  the 
end  came  ? 

Lieutenant.  Miss  Judith's  father  spoke  a  few  words  only. 

Alice.  What  did  he  say  ? 


fe 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH        2G7 

Lieutenant.  He  said:  "Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not 
what  they  do!" 

Alice.  Inconceivable! 

Lieutenant.  Yes,  Miss  Judith's  father  was  a  good  and 
noble  man. 

Alice.  Curt! 

Curt  Enters. 

Alice.  It  is  over! 

Curt.  Oh! 

Alice.  Do  you  know  what  his  last  words  were  ?  No,  you 
can  never  guess  it.  "Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 
they  do!" 

Curt.  Can  you  translate  it  ? 

Alice.  I  suppose  he  meant  that  he  had  always  done  right 
and  died  as  one  that  had  been  wronged  by  life. 

Curt.  I  am  sure  his  funeral  sermon  will  be  fine. 

Alice.  And  plenty  of  flowers — from  the  non-commissioned 
oflBcers. 

Curt.  Yes. 

Alice.  About  a  year  ago  he  said  something  like  this:  "It 
looks  to  me  as  if  life  were  a  tremendous  hoax  played  on  all  of 


us 


Curt.  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  he  was  playing  a  hoax 
on  us  up  to  the  very  moment  of  death  ? 

Alice.  No — but  now,  when  he  is  dead,  I  feel  a  strange  in- 
clination to  speak  well  of  him. 

Curt.  Well,  let  us  do  so! 

Lieutenant.  Miss  Judith's  father  was  a  good  and  noble 
man. 

Alice.  [To Curt]  Listen  to  that! 

Curt.  "They  know  not  what  they  do."  How  many  times 
did  I  not  ask  you  whether  he  knew  what  he  was  doing  ?  And 
you  didn't  think  he  knew.     Therefore,  forgive  him! 


268        THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH 

Alice.  Riddles!  Riddles!  But  do  you  notice  that  there 
is  peace  in  the  house  now  ?  The  wonderful  peace  of  death. 
Wonderful  as  the  solemn  anxiety  that  surrounds  the  coming  of 
a  child  into  the  world.  I  hear  the  silence — and  on  the  floor 
I  see  the  traces  of  the  easy-chair  that  carried  him  away —  And 
I  feel  that  now  my  own  life  is  ended,  and  I  am  starting  on 
the  road  to  dissolution !  Do  you  know,  it's  queer,  but  those 
simple  words  of  the  Lieutenant — and  his  is  a  simple  mind — 
they  pursue  me,  but  now  they  have  become  serious.  My  hus- 
band, my  youth's  beloved — ^yes,  perhaps  you  laugh! — he  icas 
a  good  and  noble  man — nevertheless! 

Curt.  Nevertheless  ?  And  a  brave  one — as  he  fought  for 
his  own  and  his  family's  existence! 

Alice.  What  worries!  What  humiliations!  Which  he 
wiped  out — in  order  to  pass  on ! 

Curt.  He  was  one  who  had  been  passed  by!  And  that  is 
to  say  much!    Alice,  go  in  there! 

Alice.  No,  I  cannot  do  it!  For  while  we  have  been  talk- 
ing here,  the  image  of  him  as  he  was  in  his  younger  years  has 
come  back  to  me — I  have  seen  him,  I  see  him — now,  as  when 
he  was  only  twenty — I  must  have  loved  that  man ! 

Curt.  And  hated  him! 

Alice.  And  hated ! —     Peace  be  with  him ! 

Goes  toward  the  right  door  and  stops  in  front  of  it,  fold- 
ing her  hands  as  if  to  pray. 

Curtain. 


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